


Caretakers

by em2mb



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, M/M, Medical Procedures, Minor Character Death, Slow Build, Stilinski Family Feels, post-3B
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 20:43:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 177,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4152258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/em2mb/pseuds/em2mb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now Lydia sees the white room clearly, Stiles sitting cross-legged atop the nemeton in his lacrosse jersey, squinting at a chessboard.</p><p>That’s when Lydia realizes her vantage point makes her Stiles’ opponent - and she has him in check.</p><p>Her instinct is to push her own king into danger, but Stiles grabs her wrist. “Come on, Lydia,” he says dryly, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Chess might not be your game, but surely you know that’s against the rules.”</p><p>*<br/> <br/>Five months after the nogitsune tears through Beacon Hills, Stiles' humanity leaves the McCall pack vulnerable. Post-3B.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Scott and Stiles are bickering.

It’s not new, nor is it surprising, but Derek can’t for the life of him figure out why they’re doing it on _his_ elevator. Except then they’re standing jersey-clad in the middle of the loft, expectant looks on their faces, and it occurs to Derek that something’s been lost in translation.

“We’re here,” says Scott unnecessarily. “What’s up?”

Derek arches an eyebrow. “I said it wasn’t urgent.”

“No,” Stiles insists, panting a little, clutching his side like he's still recovering from the mad dash from the parking lot. “You said it _was_ urgent. So we ditched last period.”

“Pretty sure I specified it wasn’t urgent,” Derek counters.

Scott pulls out his phone. “I could have sworn - ”

Stiles snatches the alpha’s cell with impressive deftness, juggles his lacrosse stick and helmet as he enters the passcode, and groans. “Scotty, reading comprehension!” he chides. “He said it was _not_ urgent. Man, we take the SAT in like, two weeks. You gotta up your game.”

And he flops down on Derek’s couch, dropping his lacrosse gear in a heap at his feet.

Scott clears his throat. “Actually, uh, if it can wait, we should go. We’re supposed to be getting on a bus as soon as the last bell rings. We’re playing Chico in the quarter-finals.”

“Oh, come on, we're already here,” whines Stiles, craning his neck around to look at Scott. “I want to know what Malia found in the woods.”

“It can wait,” Derek says quickly. “Since you have a - ”

“No, Stiles is right,” says Scott, straightening, his best alpha posture. “We’re here. Why don’t you tell us what Malia saw?”

“She didn’t see anything. It’s what she _heard_ ,” says Derek, “a low, rumbling growl, then the crunch of leaves. Whatever it was, she says it was moving rapidly.”

“And this was last night?” Scott asks.

Derek nods. “Yes, but since she was late getting home, Mr. Tate took away her phone. She finally got a chance to call me from the bathroom during - ”

“But that’ll get her in trouble,” Stiles interrupts, incredulous. “Does she not get that if she gets kicked out of the alternative school, there’s not actually anywhere else to send her?”

“I’m sure Malia knows she’s still on probation, Stiles,” says Derek, gentle but firm. “But what she saw last night freaked her out enough she was willing to take the risk. She asked me to go check the preserve. I didn’t find anything. Just some boot tracks too big to be Malia’s.”

Scott crosses his arms. “So you just - want me to be aware?”

“Yes,” says Derek. “I want you to be aware.”

“And you’re going to tell Malia - ”

“That she should come to you in the future,” says Derek, anticipating what the alpha will ask next. “But Scott, I can’t help it that she feels more comfortable with me.”

Stiles’ heart begins to drum rapidly, but Scott just nods. “No, you’re her cousin. Of course.”

“You should go,” Derek tells the teenagers. “You don’t want to miss your game.”

“Thanks for checking out, Derek,” says Scott, a little pompously. The older werewolf reminds himself not to smirk. “Maybe we could - _I’ll_ check it later.”

“Later?” Stiles interjects. “Am I the only one that thinks it’s weird that something that can leave a boot print is _growling_ at werecoyotes on the preserve? And for that matter, what was Malia doing - ”

“Stiles, Derek’s right. We need to get back to school, or we won’t make it on the bus.”

“It’s just a stupid lacrosse game,” Stiles insists. “Malia’s thing sounds way more - ”

Scott hauls his best friend up by the arm. “Stiles doesn’t want to go because Coach hasn’t cleared him to play.”

Stiles is holding his lacrosse stick like a staff. He waggles it at Derek. “He refuses to believe my ankle is healed.”

“I’m not sure _I_ believe your ankle’s healed,” says Derek. Stiles had sprained it during the full moon in March, running away from an out-of-control Malia. “Now go, win, we’ll worry about whatever Malia heard later.”

“Irresponsible!” Stiles calls from the door as Scott hauls him out into the hallway. “What if we go to the game, and whatever she heard eats half of - _ow_!”

Derek picks the book he’d been reading back up as Stiles swears loudly. Derek can hear the teen hopping around on one foot.

“It’s a couple of hours, Stiles,” Scott says reasonably. “Nothing’s going to go wrong.”

“You did not just say that,” Stiles fires back as they clamber onto the elevator. “You did not just jinx it, Scotty. You did not - ”

They bicker all the way down, until the Jeep’s engine rumbles to life and drowns them out.

Derek finishes the chapter he’d been reading, decides to make himself a snack. That’s when his foot catches on Stiles’ helmet.

He sighs and grabs his car keys instead.

*           *           *

“Where the hell have you two been?” Coach demands as Scott and Stiles sprint from the Jeep to the waiting school bus.

“It’s 3:01, Coach,” Scott points out. “School _just_ let out.”

Coach snorts. “Yeah, and school’s that way, McCall,” he says with a jerk of his thumb. “Now get on the bus.”

“Sorry, Coach,” Scott says.

“Yeah, sorry,” Stiles chimes, clambering up the steps behind Scott onto the nearly-full bus. “Hey, Danny, why don’t you just scoot over, sit with Spencer? Yeah, buddy.”

Danny rolls his eyes as he grabs his bag and moves across the aisle. Stiles tumbles into the seat after Scott as the bus pulls away from the curb with a lurch. “OK, I get that you’re firmly in the a-growl-in-the-woods-isn’t-a-big-deal camp, but why aren’t we discussing the thing that’s bugging me?”

“I don’t know why Malia was out in the woods, Stiles,” says Scott impatiently. “And frankly, I don’t know why you’re so worried. I know that you still feel responsible - ”

“I don’t feel _responsible_ ,” Stiles huffs. But he falters as he continues, “I mean, Malia’s made it perfectly clear she can take care of herself.”

Scott stares at his friend. “OK - I’m going to ask you one more time. Do we need to talk about Malia? Because you keep saying you’re all right, but  - ”

“ _No_ ,” Stiles says quickly. Too quickly. He sighs when Scott arches an eyebrow. “I just - I don’t like the idea of her out in the woods if there’s something big and growly out there. What if some hunters - ”

“Stiles, she lived out there on her own for eight years,” Scott interrupts. “And why would hunters growl?”

Stiles makes an indignant little huff, and Scott’s not sure if it’s to say _you’re the alpha, you figure it out_ or if something else is bothering his best friend. “She could have called.”

“She did,” Scott points out reasonably. “She just … called Derek. That’s all.”

“Shouldn’t Derek be on your side?” Stiles presses. “Aren’t you his alpha now?”

“Keep your voice down,” Scott hisses, punching Stiles’ arm. “As for Derek - I have no idea. I’m an alpha, but I don’t know if I’m his.”

“You’d think that’s something - ”

Stiles is interrupted with Coach’s whistle. “Listen up,” he yells, even though everyone’s stopped talking. “No long speech today. I just want to make sure you know how important today’s match is. I need you to make Coach proud. Your grades in econ need you to make Coach proud. So get out there and beat the Panthers!”

As soon as he lays off the whistle, Stiles asks, “Since you clearly don’t want to talk about your maybe-beta Derek, can we talk about the game? As in, am I playing in it?”

“I’ve told you before, Stiles, Coach doesn’t really talk about that stuff with me,” says Scott.

“But you could tell him - ”

“How’s your ankle? Honestly.”

Stiles sinks down into the seat. “It’s better,” he mutters.

“Is it?”

Instead of answering, Stiles gets out his tablet and pulls up his vocabulary app. “ _Irrevocable_ ,” he mutters just under his breath. “Unchangeable. _Portend_. Foretell. _Palliative_. Let’s see - ”

Scott does his best to tune it out, stares out the window. The bus blows past the county line. A faded tourism billboard encourages people leaving Beacon Hills to “Come again!” in big script. In his pocket, his phone buzzes.

**KIRA: Is everything OK?**

**SCOTT: Yeah, fine. It didn’t turn out to be urgent.**

**KIRA: What did Derek want?**

**SCOTT: Just to say he went looking for whatever Malia heard**

**KIRA: He didn’t find it?**

**SCOTT: No, just boot tracks. It’s prbably nothing.**

**KIRA: But nothing’s good, right?**

**KIRA: And hey, I’m sorry I can’t make it to the game. My dad’s insisting we eat dinner as a family.**

**KIRA: GO CYCLONES!!**

**KIRA: ^_^**

**SCOTT: What’s that one again?**

**KIRA: It’s a happy smile.**

**KIRA: Sorry. I’ll stop using the weird ones.**

**KIRA: :)**

Scott’s about to text back he thinks it’s cute when he hears the driver mutter, “What the hell?”

A second later, the bus careens toward the shoulder as the driver swerves, trying to avoid a jack-knifing semi. It’s not enough. The trailer scrapes down the side of the bus with a sick crunch.

That’s when the bus starts to roll.

Scott’s shoulder hits first - something solid, maybe the roof, maybe a seat - but whatever he makes contact with next is squishy, a warm body. He hears his ribs cracking as he slams chest-first into the row of windows as the bus comes to rest on its side, someone’s helmet thudding uncomfortably into his back.

He coughs and spits up a little blood.

 _You can heal_ , Scott reminds himself. He can hear groans and cries around him - someone steps on him accidentally - and Scott knows he needs to get to his feet quickly so he can help.

“Pop the emergency exit!” someone yells. “If you’re hurt, _stay put_. We’ll come back to help you.”

But Scott still isn’t healing. He flicks his claws and drives them deep into his thigh with a strangled moan.

He feels a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t move, McCall,” says Coach. “I think you’ve got some broken bones.”

“No, I’m fine,” says Scott, willing himself not to cry out as he staggers to his feet, wiping blood from his chin hastily so Coach won’t see. Finstock is cradling one arm to his chest. “See?”

Coach blows his whistle. “If anyone can find their phone - ”

Scott looks for Stiles, first. They’d been sitting right by each other, but Scott’s lost track of his best friend. He tries to focus his hearing as a freshman - Moore or Morris, he thinks - waves him over to help free someone from the rubble. Usually, Scott would be able to lift a bus seat no problem. Now, his arms feel like rubber.

The kid under the seat isn’t moving.

“I think I need a minute,” Scott says, and he makes his way to the line of players crawling out the bus’ top hatch onto the grassy shoulder. He can hear _everything_ \- just not Stiles.

Panic growing, Scott winces as his back bumps the edge of the bus roof and jostles his ribs, which aren’t fully healed yet. “Stiles?” he calls, now free of the bus. “Stiles!”

“He’s - I think I saw him over there,” says Jack Winters, the sophomore who now plays Isaac’s position. He gestures vaguely, his face set in a grimace as he props up another teammate whose face is so covered in blood Scott’s not sure who it is.

In his haste, Scott almost trips.

Over Stiles.

*           *           *

Lydia is painting her nails over her completed calculus homework when she feels it, the all-too familiar prickle on the back of her neck.

_“It’s like you’re in a crowded room,” she’d told Stiles once, “and someone whispers in your ear while walking by. You can feel it, but you can’t quite make out the words.”_

She blows on her bright red, still-drying nails. “No,” she says to no one in particular. It’s all an act, but it gives her the tiniest bit of control back to pretend she can keep her banshee powers at bay. “I’m not listening. Come on, Prada.”

She scoops up the little dog in her other hand, goes downstairs for a seltzer water, careful not to chip her nail polish as she pours San Pellegrino into a drinking glass.

She goes back upstairs. She’s almost finished the other hand when it happens again.

“Seriously, cut it out,” snaps Lydia. She sighs when Prada whimpers at her feet. “Not you.”

And then she screams. The frightened papillon darts under the bed, her yelps adding to the cacophony.

Lydia pitches forward. Her knees drop to the carpet. The nail polish spills. She can see it all. The billowing smoke, the twisted bus, the bodies.

Her friends’ bodies.

“ _Danny!_ ”

*           *           *

Derek _smells_ it long before he reaches the scene of the accident.

He catches a whiff two miles out - blood and gasoline and metal dust, a wreck, a big one, it’s so pungent. He’s expecting a pile-up, three or four cars. He unbuckles his seatbelt, gets ready to help.

But the one thing he’s not expecting to see when he rounds the corner is an overturned Beacon Hills school bus in the ditch. Because there’s only one reason it would be this far out - _the lacrosse team_.

He kills the engine, doesn’t even bother to take the keys with him. There’s no ambulance on scene, no firetrucks, just a couple of cars that have stopped.

A teenager is limping toward him, a gash on his head. Derek grabs him by the shoulders.

“Have you seen Scott McCall?” he demands.

The kid just blinks.

Their asinine coach is blowing on his whistle, shouting. It hurts Derek’s ears. He tries to focus, to find Scott’s voice.

“ _C’mon, Stiles, c’mon, stay with me_.”

It’s not exactly encouraging.

He almost misses them - he’s searching for them among the bloodied, battered teens on the side of the road, not along the perimeter of the bus. But that’s where Scott is, crouched low.

Because Stiles is _half-under the fucking bus_.

Scott gives a strangled cry of relief when he sees Derek.

“You gotta help me,” the young werewolf begs. “I tried on my own, I can’t do it, I can’t lift it off him by myself.”

Scott stands on shaky legs, tries to clutch the edge of the bus. His hands are slick with blood, and they slip off the painted metal, leaving red-brown handprints on the bus.

Derek grabs Scott’s arm, drags him back. “You can’t do that,” he admonishes.

“Why the hell not?” demands Scott, tears streaking his dirty face as he fights against Derek. It’s when Derek realizes Scott must be injured, not fully healed yet, because there’s no way he should be able to drag back the alpha. “Why the hell not, _Derek_?”

Derek glances back at Stiles, who’s gasping for air in shallow, ragged breaths. “Because you’ll likely hurt him more by moving the bus. Now go over there and let yourself heal.”

Scott shakes his head vigorously. “No, no,” he insists. “I’m fine. He needs me, he’s in such bad shape, Derek. He’s in so much pain - ”

“I’ll do it,” Derek cuts in. “I’ll take his pain. Now _go_ , before the paramedics turn up and try to put you in an ambulance.”

He drops to his knees, trying to figure out how exactly Stiles is pinned as he leans over to touch the teen’s shoulders. He’s expecting it to be bad, on par with the mistletoe poisoning that almost killed Cora. He’s not prepared for the searing, stabbing _burn_. It reminds him of Kali driving a pipe through his gut. Tears well up in Derek’s eyes. He takes a deep breath, finds his center.

“Stiles?” he asks, gritting his teeth so he won’t cry out and scare Scott, who's groaning as his body knits itself back together. Everything below Stiles’ chest is below the bus, but they’re on an incline, so it’s hard to tell what’s actually being crushed. Derek tries again. “Stiles?”

It's probably wasted effort because there's no way in hell Stiles is conscious. Except -

“D-Derek?” Stiles mutters. It’s more of a gurgle. There’s blood in his mouth.

“What hurts, Stiles?”

“ _Everything_.” The way he’s lying, there’s blood dripping from his mouth to his nose. He coughs. “Is this - this what it’s like to be a werewolf? It smells - blood smells - like the change jar in our kitchen.”

“It’s metallic, yeah,” says Derek, not sure if he’s ever going to able to look at a jar of pennies the same way. “Like copper. Listen, Stiles, if you can, you need to tell us _what_ hurts so I can tell the paramedics when they get here.” _Because I doubt you’ll still be conscious_.

There are sirens off in the distance as Stiles coughs, spitting up another mouthful of blood. “I think - I think it’s my leg,” the teen chokes. “And my stomach. There’s also - something wrong - with my stomach.”

Derek’s starting to feel a little light-headed. “Scott?” he calls. “You about healed?”

A second later, the alpha is crouched beside him. “See?” Scott whispers. “It’s bad. I think - ”

Stiles figures out what Scott’s saying right before Derek does.

“No bite,” he says weakly. “Don’t bite me, Scott.”

Scott shakes his head. “Stiles, you don’t know what you’re talking about.” He glances at Derek, a silent plea.

“Stiles,” says Derek again. “You know more than we do about what’s happening under that bus.”

“It’s bad,” Stiles slurs. “Real fucking bad.”

“Stiles, I can do it, you’ll heal,” says Scott. “Derek can - Derek can get you out of here, take you some place, we’ll just say you got thrown from the bus and turned up somewhere else, OK? Let me do it.”

Another bloody cough. “No, Scott. No bite.”

Scott turns to Derek. “Help me,” he begs. “Help me convince - ”

Derek shakes his head, hands still pressed to Stiles’ shoulders. The pain is more muted now. They’re losing him.

“You can’t, Scott,” Derek says heavily. “He’s saying no.”

“He’s out of his - he’s in pain, he doesn’t know what he’s saying,” says Scott.

“Do too,” mutters Stiles. “Scotty, it’s - it’s gonna be OK.”

But clearly Scott doesn’t believe his best friend. Sobs wrack the alpha’s body. “No,” he says, repeating Stiles’ name over and over. Derek can’t make out the rest, he’s too focused on the ambulances arriving.

“Down here!” he shouts. “We need help down here!”

The first firefighter to reach them swears loudly when he sees Stiles. “Jesus Christ,” he says, then hollers, “we’ve got one _under_ the bus!”

Stiles laughs. He sounds a little drunk, almost chokes. Scott grips Stiles’ hand tighter.

“Stiles, stay with me,” Derek commands. “Keep talking to me.”

He glances up at the firefighter, who nods his approval.

“OK,” says Stiles, eyes fluttering. “Scotty - ”

“Get the crying kid out of there,” someone barks.

Just like that, Scott’s hauled away, leaving Derek suspicious the alpha was hurt worse in the crash than he's letting on.

“And you - ” Derek looks up to see a portly man with a gleaming sheriff’s badge staring down at him, is confused for a second before he remembers they’re in Butte County “ - move it, let the guys work.”

“He’s fine,” one of the firemen pipes in. “He’s trying to get the kid calmed down.”

There’s an EMT on Derek’s left now, where Scott had been.

“What’s your name?” she asks Stiles, searching for a vein on his dirty arm.

“Stiles,” he coughs.

She frowns, looks like she wants to ask how a kid ends up with a name like Stiles. But instead she tells him, “I’m going to stick your arm, Stiles. It might pinch, but it’ll help with your pain.”

Stiles hisses when she does.

“That didn’t hurt,” Derek tells him.

“Yes it did,” Stiles argues. “No offense, paramedic lady.”

“Kelly,” she tells him. “My name’s Kelly.”

Derek pretends not to hear her calling for more morphine. He feels a hand on his back. “We need you to move so we can get to work,” says one of the firefighters.

Derek nods. He starts to lift his hands off Stiles’ shoulders, but the second he does, the teen just _wails_ in agony.

“Please,” Stiles begs. “Let him stay.”

The firefighter glances over his shoulder. “OK,” he says finally. “But move over there and don’t let Sheriff Sanders see you."

Derek nods, shifting to where Kelly had been kneeling, sure to keep one hand on Stiles’ shoulder. He’s a little surprised when the teen reaches his hand up to clumsily pat Derek’s.

“Not so bad,” Stiles murmurs.

The werewolf wants to offer him some small words of comfort, but he can’t think of any. He can hear little snippets of the rescue crew’s conversation.

“He’s too far gone,” says a lean, lanky man Derek takes an immediate dislike to. “We’ll never get him out alive. Just keep him comfortable, I say.”

“No,” snaps Kelly. “He deserves a shot. He just might have one if we can get him into the air ambulance that’s en route.”

Derek tries not to think about what it means when Kelly has to slip her shoulders under the bus to put a tourniquet on Stiles’ left thigh. “Just a precaution,” she promises, but the look doesn’t reach her eyes. “You’re going to feel some pressure as the fire crew works, Stiles. Let me know if they cut too close to your leg, OK?”

“OK,” Stiles agrees, blood dribbling down his chin. He tells Derek, “I guess this is payback.”

Derek shakes his head. “No, Stiles,” he says. “This isn’t - ”

“When Scott and I were kids, I made him do all this dumb stuff that should have killed us both. But he - he was the only one that ever got hurt.”

Derek wants to tell him to shut up, but he knows if Stiles stops talking he's that much more likely to go into shock.

“It’s not payback,” he insists. The scrape of metal on metal drowns out whatever Stiles tries to tell him next. The teen screams. Derek winces.

“What the hell is he still doing down there?” someone yells, just as one of the firefighters motions for the paramedics to bring the stretcher over.

It’s the damn sheriff again. Derek feels a yank at his collar, but he’s determined to hold onto Stiles as long as possible.

Except he’s been offloading Stiles’ pain for so long his strength is shot. Sheriff Sanders drags Derek to his feet, calls a deputy over to arrest him.

“Someone hold him still!” the firefighter shouts as Stiles begins to writhe. But a few seconds later, he’s out from under the bus. Derek makes the mistake of glancing over as the deputy reads him his rights.

He wishes he hadn’t.

Derek can feel the stares of a dozen teenagers as he’s escorted toward a cruiser. He finally spots Scott, fighting off the EMT who’s trying to examine him.

“What - ” Scott says, and he stops struggling long enough for the paramedic to actually get the blood pressure cuff on him.

“Interfering at the scene of an accident,” calls Derek over his shoulder. “Take my car, OK?”

Scott nods. “Is he - ”

Derek shrugs. “I did everything I could,” he says quietly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Scott’s shoulders fall.

*           *           *

Melissa is so focused on preparing for the onslaught of bus crash victims that the first Beacon Hills lacrosse jersey catches her off guard. The kid’s 15, 16, strapped to a back brace, and he can’t feel his feet.

She drops the clipboard she’s holding.

“It’s the lacrosse team,” she says, to no one in particular.

And then she panics. But only for a moment, until she remembers her son is a _werewolf_ who can heal from a GSW in an hour, tops.

She picks up the clipboard, runs to greet the next victim, a 17-year-old with two broken legs. “Exam room three!” she hollers.

They roll in one after another - a seemingly endless stream of bruises and broken bones. She sends a freshman off to X-ray and a senior to a CT scan. Nancy, the head nurse, taps her on the shoulder.

“Can you page Dr. Alexander?” she asks Melissa. “There’s an air ambulance five minutes out with a critical 17-year-old male on board, penetrating abdominal injury, partial leg amputation in the field.”

Melissa nods. “Go,” she tells Nancy, waving her in the direction of the elevator. “I have this under control.”

She does, for about ten minutes. Then she remembers. Scott may be a werewolf, but _Stiles_ is still human. And she hasn’t seen him.

She grabs for a passing EMT. “Are there others? Still coming?” she demands.

The paramedic shakes his head. “All of the injured should be here by now.”

Melissa’s heart skips a beat. “What about kids who weren’t injured?”

“We only cleared one kid at the scene,” he says. “Everyone else was put on an ambulance.”

 _Scott_. “Were any of them taken to other hospitals?” Melissa wants to know.

“No, they were rerouted here when we found out it was a Beacon Hills team,” he says. “I don’t know about the fatalities, though. They’ll probably be sent straight to the morgue at County.”

 _Fatalities_.

The entire ER is spinning. Melissa dashes off, starts dragging back curtains and interrupting exams in progress. Not Stiles. Not Stiles. Not Stiles. But he’s not there. _No, no, no. This isn’t happening._

Then she remembers. The air ambulance. The kid in the operating room. She pushes her way right into OR 2.

“I just need to see who the kid is,” says Melissa, before the attending can snap at her.

“Make it quick,” Dr. Alexander growls, his scrubs already stained up to the elbows with the kid’s blood.

Melissa holds her breath as she rounds the table. The patient is in bad shape, of that she has little doubt. But if it’s not him -

“Stiles,” she breathes.

*           *           *

The sheriff’s not one to jump to conclusions - it’s what makes him a good cop - but when Butte County dispatch puts out a call for assistance with an overturned school bus, he just _knows_.

“Parrish!” he shouts, shuffling stacks of paper on his desk for the lacrosse schedule, needing it to confirm what he suspects. It’s the same feeling he’d gotten the night Claudia died. John hadn’t believed then, but he does _now_ , and today’s date on the crumpled calendar eliminates any doubt.

The door swings open. “Sir?”

“What do we know?”

“About the bus crash on Highway 32? That’s the first call I heard,” says Parrish. “Why?”

John hopes he sounds more casual than he feels. “The lacrosse team is supposed to be playing Chico High School tonight. And Chico High School - ”

“ - is out on Highway 32,” Parrish finishes. “I’ll see what I can find out, Sheriff.”

He waits until Parrish has shut the door before he calls Stiles’ cell. It goes straight to voicemail. “Call me the _second_ you get this,” he tells his son.

Scott doesn’t pick up, either.

When Parrish returns with more information, John can tell his deputy’s about to deliver bad news. “It’s a Beacon Hills school bus, sir. They’re going to route all ambulances to Memorial.”

The sheriff’s already on his feet. “I’m going to head out to the scene, Parrish. You should get a call into the district, I’m sure they’ll want someone at the hospital to help with crowd control.”

“Sheriff - ”

“ _What_ , Parrish?”

“I think _you_ should go to the hospital.”

John crosses his arms. “Is that so, Deputy?”

But Parrish doesn’t flinch. “Yes. Because if it is the lacrosse team, you’ll want to be able to see for yourself that Stiles is all right.”

He wants to believe Parrish, wants to ignore the creeping sense of dread. “I’m the sheriff - ”

“No disrespect, sir, but you’re also a _parent_. You said it yourself. They’re going to need help at the hospital. Go there.”

John sighs, grabs his jacket. “Take Ramirez, Bailey and Haines with you and make sure that idiot Sanders doesn’t mess up the investigation.”

“You got it, Sheriff.” But when he turns to go, the young deputy hesitates. “And sir?”

“Yes, Parrish?”

“I hope Stiles is OK.”

The sheriff manages a nod. He’s on autopilot as he heads to his cruiser, drives to the hospital. As dispatch rattles off a long list of casualties, John tells himself there’s no reason to panic - it sounds like a lot of broken bones - but then the words “possible spinal cord injury” jump out and stay with him as he jogs into the emergency room.

He’s scanning the sea of jersey-clad teenagers for Stiles when the superintendent seizes him by the shoulders.

“Stilinski,” pants Dr. Magee, “thank God you’re here. I - I don’t know what to do. I don’t have any names yet, and I’m afraid parents are going to show up here and start a panic when they can’t find - ”

“Names?” John cuts in.

“Of the fatalities,” says the superintendent. “I’ve asked for a list, but - ” he shrugs helplessly.

This is it. This is his worst nightmare. It’s not werewolves or kitsune or nogitsune. It’s outliving Stiles. John takes a step backwards, covers his mouth with his hand.

Magee frowns. “Sheriff?”

“Sheriff! Sheriff! _John!_ ”

He forgets all about the superintendent, focuses on Melissa sprinting down the hall toward him.

“He’s alive,” she says, closing the distance, grabbing his hands. John doesn’t have to ask how bad it is - Melissa’s face says it all. “I just saw him. He’s in surgery. We’re doing _everything_ we can.”

*           *           *

“Kira,” Noshiko snaps, pointing her chopsticks at the young kitsune, “you know the rules. No phones at the dinner table. Now put that away.”

“But Mom, Scott hasn’t replied - ”

“Perhaps because he is busy playing in a lacrosse game,” says Noshiko harshly. “Ken, you were saying?”

Ken gives his daughter a sympathetic smile as he finishes a bite of _gunkan-maki_. “I was going to have Kira tell you about the paper she just wrote for Mr. Collini. He made a point to tell me how good he thought it was.”

“This is the one you stayed up Monday night to finish?” asks Noshiko. Kira nods. “Then I think it would have been better had you not waited until the last minute to start.”

“Noshiko,” says Ken warningly.

His wife dabs at her mouth with a napkin. “Very well,” she says. “Then it is good to see all this time you’re spending with Scott isn’t affecting your studies, Kira.”

Kira pokes at her own plate of sushi. “Of course not, Mom,” she chimes.

There’s a blip from the living room TV, which Kira had been watching before dinner. Noshiko’s eyes flash. “I thought I told you to turn that off,” she tells Kira.

But what Kira hears next makes the older kitsune’s admonishment easy to ignore. The anchor says, “We’re getting word that a bus transporting the Beacon Hills High School lacrosse team has overturned in an accident ... ”

Kira is on her feet at once, bumping her plate with her hip and knocking sushi to the floor.

“Kira!” says Noshiko sharply.

But the young kitsune isn’t listening. She darts into the living room, grabbing the remote and increasing the volume. On screen, there’s an aerial of the school bus on its side in the ditch. Kira’s hand flies to her mouth. She feels her father’s hand on her shoulder. “Kira - ”

“I need to go,” she tells him.

“Of course, sweetheart,” says Ken. “Let me drive you.”

Five minutes later, over Noshiko’s objections, they’re on their way to Beacon Hills Memorial. Ken gets a phone call from the principal as they’re pulling into the parking lot. It’s short, terse. He pulls to a stop at the curb. “Do you feel OK going in by yourself?” he asks.

Kira nods. “What’s going on, Dad?”

“They’re asking teachers to go to the school,” he tells her. “They’re - bringing in a counselor.”

“Oh.”

“I shouldn’t leave you here,” Ken says.

Kira is about to shake her head, tell her dad to go where he’s needed, when she sees Derek’s SUV pull into the parking lot. But Derek’s not driving - Scott is. She dashes toward him, doesn’t care that his shirt is stained with blood, flings herself into his arms. He buries his face in her shoulder.

“It doesn’t look good for Stiles,” he mutters into her hair.

“Scott - ”

“Don’t,” he tells her, pulling back and holding her at arm’s length. “There’s nothing - you don’t have to say anything.”

Kira reaches around him, opens the back door of Derek’s car. There’s a gym bag on the seat, a crumpled henley poking out. “You should change,” she tells Scott. She doesn’t have to look to know her father is still watching from the car.

Scott doesn’t say anything, just peels his dirty shirt off and throws it to the floorboard, yanking Derek’s shirt over his head. She wants to ask why he has Derek’s car and what happened to the other werewolf, knows it’s not the time. She grabs his hand. “Let’s go find your mom,” she says quietly.

*           *           *

Melissa grips both sides of the clipboard and steels herself for this conversation because _ho boy_ , it is not going to be easy.

“Sheriff,” she says, dropping into the chair next to him and patting the stack of papers, “we’re going to need your autograph.”

John’s eyes are red and puffy. He jerks his head in the briefest of nods before moving his hand, dazed, toward the pen she’s offering. “What am I signing, Melissa?”

“We - ” she stops, reaches over, grabs his hand and takes it in hers “ - we need to amputate Stiles’ leg.”

John looks startled. “Stiles’ leg?” he says faintly.

This is where she’s supposed to stick to the script. But this is _Stiles_ , and she can’t. “Yes,” she says softly. “It’s - ”

“Cutting off my son’s leg,” the sheriff interrupts, pulling his hand from hers to grip the clipboard tighter. He frowns as he flips past the patient confidentiality notice on top. “This is - isn’t there something you can do to try to fix it?”

Melissa clasps her hands together in her lap. She can’t meet John’s eye. “Sheriff, the bus - I don’t know what they’ve told you.”

John shakes his head. “Not much.”

“He was pinned under the bus, John.”

“ _Christ_.” The sheriff palms at his mouth. There’s a long pause. “I can’t do it, Melissa. I just can’t. He’s only 17. I can’t bury him next to his mother. _Do you understand me?_ ”

“Sign the form, John,” Melissa  prompts quietly. “It’s the best chance we can give him, let his body focus on other injuries.”

"Other injuries," John repeats. But slowly he begins to scribble. Melissa can make out the S; the rest is illegible. He tries to pass the clipboard back, but she shakes her head.

“Next page,” she says, jabbing with her finger. “Initial here.” Another page. “Sign there.”

His hands are shaking when he passes it back. She glances back at the nurse’s station, trying to catch someone’s eye. “Below the knee or above?” John asks quietly.

Melissa sets the clipboard aside so the orderly she’s locked eyes with can take it. “Above.”

This time, when she takes his hand, he doesn’t try to pull it away.

*           *           *

Hours pass. The only updates John gets are through Melissa, who keeps conferring in low tones with the nurse at the desk. He tries telling himself that’s normal - there’s a lot going on at the hospital, a lot of injured kids.

Not to mention the fatalities. Seven of them. The sheriff expects to feel something when Parrish calls with an update. Professional obligation, maybe. But mostly he just stares at Melissa, who looks like she’s headed toward him with bad news. “I have to go, Parrish,” he says, ending the call before the deputy can say how sorry he is again.

John’s mouth is dry as Melissa takes a seat next to him and pulls his hand into her lap. It’s not a good news gesture. “Just give it to me straight, Melissa,” he says hoarsely.

“They’ve done as much as they can do tonight,” she says. “They’ll take him from recovery to the ICU and hope his vitals stabilize over the next 24 to 48 hours.”

“Will I - will I be able to see him?” John wants to know.

“His doctor wants to talk to you first,” says Melissa, giving his hand a squeeze as a young-ish looking man with sandy brown hair approaches. She excuses herself.

Dr. Alexander is blunt.

“His heart’s weak, his lungs are weak, and frankly it’s a miracle he made it through surgery,” he tells John. “We had to close his abdomen with temporary dressings because the swelling is so bad.”

“What - what about his leg?” John asks tentatively.

Alexander stares at the sheriff. “What about it?”

“I thought you had to - ”

“Oh, the amputation,” says Alexander, like somehow he’d forgotten having to cut off a teenager’s leg. “It was almost a total loss. Completely crushed from the knee down. Trust me, it’s the least of your concerns.”

And he runs John through a long, tedious list of Stiles’ injuries.

Melissa returns, offers to go in with him to the ICU, but John brushes her off. What he has to say is between him and his son.

He thinks he's ready to see Stiles like this, expects his eyes will go to the empty space where his son's left leg used to be. But it's the mechanical hum of the ventilator that he takes note of immediately. Once Claudia had gone on the vent, stopped breathing on her own, it had been the beginning of the end. John slumps in the chair by Stiles, tries to tell himself that it's a good thing the machine is there to give his son's battered body a little assistance.

Stiles' skin has always been fair, but John’s seen corpses with more color than his son has right now. His head is lolled limply to one side, a bandage on one cheek and finger-tip shaped bruises along his neck, like there wasn’t time to be careful when inserting the breathing tube. It takes a second for John to figure out how to grip Stiles’ hand without disrupting his IV line.

“Hey kid,” he says. Then the sheriff shakes his head. Because sitting here, talking to someone who _he’s pretty sure can’t hear him_ , that’s not his strong suit. But almost as though Stiles can hear what he’s thinking, John presses on, “You’d be talking my ear off, wouldn’t you? I mean, if our roles were reversed.”

It’s all there, right on the tip of his tongue. This is where he tells Stiles to _fight like hell_ , that he had a Gulf War buddy hurt way worse who’s managed to live a pretty good life with no legs at all, but the words just don’t come.

Instead, John says miserably, “If you can see her - if you’re with Mom - I wouldn’t blame you for going with her, son.”

He presses a kiss against Stiles’ forehead, hopes today isn’t the day his kid decides to start listening to him and is maybe a little thankful for the steady, mechanical rise and fall of Stiles’ chest.

*           *           *

Scott has gotten pretty good at turning off his werewolf hearing - you can't go to high school with a few hundred other teenagers and not learn to tune it out - but right now he welcomes the distraction. The hospital is a constant, low buzz of energy and noise that keeps his mind from wandering back to the scene of the accident. He opens his mouth to say something to Kira before realizing she’s out cold against his shoulder.

He’s careful not to disturb her as he slides out of the plastic seat. It’s almost shift change and the background noise is getting louder, louder, _louder_ as the day shift files into the hospital. He might be able to pick up some new information about Stiles if he heads down to the nurses’ station - except Scott doesn’t make it that far before his mother’s sobs cut through the cacophony like a knife. He darts around the corner.

“Mom?” he asks quizzically as he pushes open the door of a supply closet. Melissa is sitting on a box of medical supplies and dabbing at her face with a crumpled tissue. Scott’s heart is pounding. “It’s not - oh God, Stiles didn’t - ”

But Melissa shakes her head before Scott can complete that horrible thought. “Sweetie, I mean this in the best way possible, but go away.”

Scott ignores her, crouching and pulling her hands back from her face. “Why are you hiding in here?”

“I didn’t want anyone to see me,” Melissa sniffles.

He shoots her a lopsided smile. “But I could still hear you.”

This earns him an eye roll. “Werewolves.”

“What’s wrong?”

“What do you think’s wrong, Scott?”

“Is he out of surgery?”

Melissa nods. “The sheriff is with him.”

Scott exhales, unaware he’d been holding his breath. “He’ll - he’ll be OK, Mom. This is Stiles. He always pulls through.”

His mom’s touch on his cheek is light. “Scott, no.”

“What do you mean, Mom?” he asks. “We’ve been in plenty of tough scrapes before.”

“Not like this,” says Melissa, and she laughs. It’s cold and bitter - practically a bark - and it startles Scott. “Scott, unless you did something out there - ”

“What, like bite him?” His argument with Derek at the crash site slams into him, forces the air out of his lungs again. “I didn’t turn him, no.”

Melissa’s eyes lock with his. “Scott, Stiles is going to die.”

Scott just stares at her. “Why would you even say that? He’s out of surgery. It’s going to be fine.”

“Scott, he had a bus on top of him. He had a _bus_ on top of him.”

Scott is starting to panic. There’s something she’s not telling him, he can sense it. “I know he’s hurt bad, Mom, but - ”

“Scott, they cut off Stiles’ leg.”

It hits him _hard_ that a one-legged Stiles won’t be able to keep up when they’re running away from demons, monsters and whatever else the nemeton unleashes on Beacon Hills. But Scott’s not about to admit it to his mother, who is still being way too fatalistic about all of this. “OK, so what? He’ll get a bionic leg or whatever. He’ll be fine. I’ll do whatever it takes to help him get back - ”

“Scott, they cut off Stiles’ leg because the damage to the rest of his body was _so bad_ he’ll likely die before he’s stable enough for them to operate again.”

Scott shakes his head. “Mom, no, you’re wrong. This is Stiles, he’ll fight it, he’ll - ”

“You should think about biting him, Scott.”

“ _What?_ ”

Suddenly Melissa isn’t teary-eyed. “I don’t know how well a one-legged werewolf would fare out there, but it’s better than a human will with the kinds of injuries he has.”

Scott closes his eyes. “I can’t bite him.”

“I thought - aren’t you an alpha now?”

Scott closes his eyes. “I offered to bite him,” he says at last. “He turned me down.”

Melissa frowns. “Do you know why?”

“No,” says Scott. “But he said no, so Derek wouldn’t let me do it.”

“Scott - ”

But he’s surprised with the force of his own interruption. “I’m not going to bite him,” he insists.

He expects her to fight him on this, give him a million and one reasons why it’s the right thing to do. The problem is, Scott can think of them all himself. And yet he keeps returning to _Stiles said no_.

Melissa presses a kiss to his forehead. “No, you’re right,” she says. “You can’t save them all.”

But it’s not just anyone they’re talking about. It’s _Stiles_. Now Scott’s the one trying to hide his tears. “Just give me a minute,” he says. Melissa squeezes his shoulder lightly and leaves the room.

*           *           *

Derek scrubs his hands so furiously under water so hot his knuckles crack. They bleed for just long enough to turn the lather he’s working up pink, then he rinses off the soap and dries his hands on his jeans. He follows the Butte County sheriff’s deputy back to the holding cell.

“Thanks,” he grunts.

The deputy looks miserable as he turns the key. As soon as he leaves, Derek sniffs his hands. He swears he can still smell Stiles’ blood. He waits for Lydia’s scream.

It’s daybreak before the deputy comes back to unlock the cell. “You’re free to go,” he says, handing Derek back his cell phone.

Derek hasn’t heard Lydia scream, but when he sees it’s Parrish waiting for him, he knows it’s bad news. Immediately the deputy’s hands go up, like he’s surrendering. “No, no, no,” he says quickly. “He’s still alive.”

It’s not exactly reassuring.

Parrish waves over his shoulder as they walk out of the station. Derek frowns. He’s not sure if the Butte County Sheriff’s Office really deserves the exchange of pleasantries.

“I’m sorry if I scared you,” Parrish says. He sounds exhausted. “I could tell by the look on your face you assumed the worse.”

Derek shrugs, squinting in the sun. “Where’s your cruiser?”

But Parrish shakes his head, unlocking a beat-up F-150. It still has Iowa plates. “I’m not here on official business, am I?”

Another frown. “The sheriff didn’t send you?”

“I think he’s been a little preoccupied, don’t you?” Parrish pushes a few empty fast food bags to the floorboards to clear the seat for Derek.

The werewolf frowns. “Scott?”

“What about him?”

“He didn’t send you, either?”

The old truck’s engine rumbles to life. “No. I saw Scott leaving in your car, heard a man had been arrested for interfering, put two and two together, called in a favor.”

“Why?”

It’s Parrish’s turn to glare at Derek. “You’re welcome, by the way. And I did it because you’re a friend of the sheriff’s family.”

It felt strange to be referred to as a friend of the Stilinskis. Then again, the sheriff calls him a lot these days, asks him to consult when something’s off about a case. “How do you know I wasn’t _actually_ interfering at the scene of the accident?”

“My buddy back there,” says Parrish. “He says Stiles was freaking out and you were just trying to keep him calm.”

“Stiles had a bus on him, I think a little freaking out was justified,” says Derek, miffed.

Parrish arches an eyebrow. “Did you hear a judgment in there?”

Derek winces. “Sorry,” he says quickly. “I’m just on edge. I’m - ”

“Worried about Stiles, yeah,” says Parrish. “I am, too.”

They ride in silence for awhile. Then - “Why are you taking the long way?”

“They’ve got 32 shut down,” says Parrish. “Still investigating. An accident like that - you know, lawsuits.”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, doesn't know if he agrees, whatever. He pulls his phone out of his pocket. “You wouldn’t happen to have a charger that would fit this, would you?”

Parrish glances over. “In the glovebox."

It takes a second for Derek’s phone to fire up. No messages. He sends off a quick text to Scott, wonders if the alpha’s phone even survived. But he gets a response in a matter of minutes.

**DEREK: How is Stiles?**

**SCOTT: Out of surgery**

**SCOTT: They had to amputate his leg**

Derek’s mind flashes to the side of the road, Stiles’ mangled leg. _You knew it, the EMTs knew it_ , he has to remind himself.

It’s still kind of a punch in the gut.

Parrish looks over. Derek can tell the deputy is trying not to act interested in each little ding. “Is there - is there any news?” he asks tentatively.

“Scott says they couldn’t save Stiles’ leg.”

“Jesus,” Parrish mutters. “The sheriff didn’t say anything - ” He breaks off. It occurs to Derek that Stilinski might not want his deputies to know all the details. Parrish clears his throat. “I had - my friend and I were out on patrol in Afghanistan when our convoy hit an IED. He’s got, uh, it’s a really high-tech leg.”

Derek doesn’t know what to say to that, but it does make it a little easier to respond to Scott’s text.

**DEREK: Parrish says they can do crazy high-tech things with prosthetics now. Are you at the hospital?**

**SCOTT: Yeah**

**SCOTT: Mom says Stiles still in bad shape**

**SCOTT: Can u check on Lydia**

**SCOTT: No ones seen her.**

**SCOTT: I’m scared she’ll just...turn up**

*           *           *

The knock on the door early Friday morning is too heavy to be her mother's. "Go away," Lydia calls, burying her face in Prada's soft fur.

"You know I can't, Lydia," Derek replies. "I'm here because Scott says you aren’t answering texts.”

“Leave me alone.”

On the other side of the door, Derek sighs. “Lydia, do you want me to break down the door?”

The banshee rolls her eyes, but she also extracts herself from her covers. When she hauls the door open, it’s obvious Derek was about to make good on his threat. Prada takes one look at the werewolf and quivers.

"What?" Lydia demands when Derek arches an eyebrow.

"Isn't that Stiles' shirt?"

She glances down at the faded t-shirt she'd pulled from her dresser the night before. Sure enough, it's from the 2008 annual sheriff's department barbecue. She blinks, vaguely recalling the night she'd worn it home. Stiles had insisted after her dress ripped while traipsing through the preserve. Lydia glares at Derek, drops Prada on her bed so she can cross her arms.

Derek matches her stance. “Why aren’t you at the hospital, Lydia?”

“I could ask you the same thing," she replies coolly.

He shrugs. “The Butte County Sheriff arrested me for interfering at the scene of an accident.”

Lydia finds herself unconsciously twirling a loose curl. "So you were there."

“I'm surprised you weren't."

The banshee flinches. "What's that supposed to mean?"

“Lydia,” says Derek impatiently.

“I saw it,” Lydia admits quietly. “All of them. Danny. The others. They’re all - dead.”

Derek takes a step closer. "And Stiles?"

“I saw him, too. I saw - ”

But she can’t bring herself to say it. Derek nods, picks up a framed photo of her and Allison from the dresser. “Did Scott tell you they had to amputate his leg?”

Lydia closes her eyes. "Yes."

"Were you surprised?" Lydia shakes her head. “Me neither.”

She bites her lip, glances at his reflection in the mirror. "Your jacket," she says. "There's - there's blood on your jacket."

Derek sets the photo down. He clears his throat, begins to shrug out of his jacket. “I’ll take it off.”

Lydia takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I keep seeing him with her. With Allison. I want to - ”

“Don’t scream,” Derek interrupts.

Lydia snorts. “You think it’s that easy? ‘Lydia, don’t scream and Stiles won’t die!’ Yeah, that’s _not_ how it works.”

Behind the framed photo of Allison is one of Lydia and Stiles.

Derek glares at the banshee. “So you’re an expert now?" he counters. "Because you're usually complaining you have no idea how it works.”

“I don’t - ”

“Don’t scream,” says Derek firmly. He grabs her by the arm, guides her to the edge of the bed. They both sit. “Whatever urge you have, just - just fight it, OK?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” she insists, picking at a loose thread on her quilt as Prada whines. “It - I have no idea how it works.”

Derek and Lydia haven’t always gotten along. But she lets him take her hand. “Don’t scream.”

The banshee nods.

*           *           *

It’s afternoon before Melissa plucks up the courage to knock at Stiles’ door. She managed to catch a few hours of shut-eye in the on-call room, but it’s clear the sheriff hasn’t slept. He greets her bleary-eyed, scratching the back of his head with two fingers the way Stiles always does when he’s about to tell a half-truth.

“Is it - is it OK if I come in?” she asks tentatively.

John nods, holds the door open for her. “I was actually thinking - would you mind sitting with him for a bit? I need to make some calls.”

“Of course,” she says. “And if you need anything - ”

It goes unspoken as the sheriff slides past her. She’s not sure who he could be calling. His parents are dead; Claudia’s, back in Poland. The whole sheriff’s department knows, deputies dropping by periodically, not knowing any better now what to say than they had when Claudia was the patient and Stiles had jerked and twisted at John’s side, his father’s hand tethering him like a rope.

As soon as the door clicks closed behind the sheriff, Melissa finds herself torn between two instincts. The nurse part of her brain gravitates toward Stiles’ chart, hanging by the door. But it’s the mom part that wins out. She smooths Stiles’ hair, still damp with sweat, touches his cheek. “Oh, Stiles,” she breathes.

Because the teenager - once a little boy she’d cradled in a hard plastic hospital chair the night his mother died - looks so close to death himself.

“Scott really wants to see you,” she tells him, finally giving in to her instinct to grab his chart. It doesn’t tell her anything she didn’t know before. “But between you and me, I don’t know if you would want him in here right now.”

Her eyes flicker to Stiles’ abdomen, draped with a warming blanket. She hopes John heeded the on-duty nurse’s warning not to peek under it, a few thin layers of gauze and plastic all that’s protecting Stiles’ insides from the outside until he’s stable enough for another surgery.

“Who’s Scott?”

Dr. Alexander startles her. He’s leaning against the door, arms crossed, lips curling upwards in a smirk. Melissa glares at him. She’d taken an instant dislike to the new pediatric surgeon when he was hired after the nogitsune attack. He'd come from a big city hospital - Portland or Seattle, Melissa can't remember which - and brought his hotshot attitude with him.

It hadn’t helped that she’d overheard him calling Stiles “organ soup” earlier.

Melissa matches his stance. “Scott’s my son,” she tells Alexander. “He’s Stiles’ best friend. And what are you doing here? Your shift doesn’t start for another five hours.”

The doctor crosses the room, pulls back Stiles’ eyelid. “I am - ” he says, shining a small pen light at the pupil “ - checking on my patient.”

“Why bother? I thought he didn’t stand a chance.” Melissa folds her arms across her chest. But she can’t quite stop herself from asking, “How’s his drain look?”

“Clear,” replies Alexander. “And so far, no striations on the residual limb.”

“What’s his temp?”

“100.1.”

“That’s high for an immunocompromised patient,” says Melissa.

Alexander snorts. “I actually went to medical school, thank you.”

“Are you here because he’s the sheriff’s son? Because whatever you think you know about law enforcement, John’s not like that.”

“So you’re on a first-name basis with the sheriff?” Melissa doesn’t respond. Alexander glances down at Stiles, then back up at her. “Where’s his mom?”

“Beacon Hills Cemetery.”

“Any siblings?”

Melissa ruffles Stiles’ hair affectionately. “No,” she says. “Just him.” She shoots Alexander a pointed look.

Which is why she’s surprised when he continues, “Can I buy you a drink sometime?”

Surely she’s misunderstood him. “I beg your pardon?”

Alexander glances at her left hand, still hovering above Stiles’ forehead. “You’re not wearing a ring. Unless - ” he smirks “ - I get it. Can’t compete with a man who carries handcuffs.”

“You are a disgusting human being,” Melissa bites out.

Alexander shrugs. “It was worth a shot.” He plucks Stiles’ chart from her hand. “He’s friends with your kid?”

“Yes,” says Melissa.

“Then for the next few minutes - ” he tells her, the door swinging open as an ICU nurse enters “ - you’re not here at all.”

Melissa wants to fight him, but then she reminds herself she doesn’t really need to see what Stiles’ intestines look like. She grabs two cups of coffee and sets off to find John.

He’s in the waiting room again, elbows on his knees, turning his phone over in his hand. He accepts the coffee wordlessly. She blows on her cup, waits for him to speak.

“I called my sister,” the sheriff says finally. “She’s not - I mean, she hasn’t seen Stiles in years.”

“What about - ” It’s right there on the tip of her tongue, the same name on Stiles’ medical file, the one that’s been tripping up doctors and nurses all day, but even if she knew how to say it, she’s not sure she should.

John shakes his head. “I can’t do it,” he confesses, drumming his fingers on the chair between them. “I know I - I can’t _not_ tell them. But do I say? Do I tell them to come? Could they even get here - in time to say goodbye?” He chokes on a sip of too-hot coffee.

Melissa chooses her words carefully. “John,” she says, and she’s not sure - for all the lacrosse games they’ve grimaced through together over the years - how good of friends they actually are, “you shouldn’t - you can’t think like that.”

“He kicked you out, didn’t he? Stiles’ doctor - did he kick you out?”

He looks right at her, and she flushes guiltily. “John - ”

“Do I call Claudia’s parents or not, Melissa?”

She swallows hard. If she’s honest with herself, they’ve been careening toward this moment for months, ever since a dark druid posing as a high school English teacher tied them up beneath a magical root cellar. She’d just always figured it would be something supernatural.

That it’d be one of them, not one of the boys.

“I think you have to ask yourself if they’ll make the next few days easier or harder.”

“His doctor’s hovering,” John says, voice catching. “Doctors don’t hover unless they’re worried. Does he - he has a chance, right? Melissa, you gotta tell me Stiles has a chance.”

“I’m sure Dr. Alexander can answer that better than I can.”

“But I’m not asking Dr. Alexander. I’m asking you.” For a half-second, he’s still, pleading with her to tell him the truth. Then he’s twitching again, leg bouncing, fingers drumming. Melissa has to wonder if he’s compensating for Stiles. “Do I need to - will there be - _arrangements_?”

“No,” says Melissa firmly. She’s going to give it to him straight, but on this point, she’s certain. “It won’t do you any good to make those calls before they’re necessary. _If_ they’re necessary.”

But of course John catches her slip. “What are his odds?”

 _Bad. Really, really bad._ But Melissa settles on, “Not good.”

“The doctor’s worried about infection. His - leg?” John guesses.

“Not just his leg,” she says quietly. “Actually - that’s why they had to amputate it. There are just too many unknowns when a limb is damaged like that. The way he was pinned, all the dirt and bacteria that had a chance to get in? They couldn’t risk it. His internal injuries are too severe.”

“They said he had a - a perforated - perforated - ” John shakes his head, like he can't bring himself to say it.

“He has a perforated bowel,” says Melissa. She stops wringing her hands and touches her own stomach, just below her left kidney. “This is where the metal rod went in.”

John’s touch is surprising, fingertips just barely grazing her knuckles as her hand hovers over her belly. “Shit,” he mutters. And then he jerks back like he’s the one worried about a line. “He - Dr. Alexander - said they couldn’t close him up all the way.”

“No,” says Melissa, choosing her words carefully. “There’s swelling. It’s - it’s actually common with the kind of injuries Stiles has. They’ll just need to operate again in the next 48 hours.”

She lets that sink in for a minute. Finally, John nods. “What else?”

“He’s got some broken ribs, lacerations on his liver and kidney, cuts, bruises. They’ll probably have to go back in and remove his spleen.”

“Good God,” John whistles. He shakes his head. “I know it’s - Dr. Alexander said I shouldn’t be worried about it, but I don’t know how not to be. I mean, if he gets through this, can he - he can have a normal life, right?”

“Normal, or _normal for Beacon Hills_?”

“Both. Either.”

Melissa hesitates because it’s a long shot. A really, really long shot. But she nods. “I think so, yeah. I can get someone to come talk to you. You _are_ asking about his leg, right?”

“I don’t want him to hate me,” says the sheriff anxiously. “You know how Stiles is. He’ll find out it was my call and spend the next five years throwing it at me every time we fight.”

It hadn’t been John’s call, not really. And Melissa doesn’t have the heart to tell him that it’s the next five hours he should be worried about, not the next five years. She takes a sip of her coffee, finally. She waited too long. It’s grown cold.

“At least he’ll be here to be mad,” Melissa says.

*           *           *

The gym is all decked out for graduation, crepe streamers and a big banner wishing the class of 2013 the best of luck. On the far side of the room, John can see the graduates beginning to line up in the hallway. He cranes his neck, tries to spot Stiles.

Of course, it’s a futile effort - there’s something like 200 graduates, all dressed in identical caps and gowns. John quickly admits defeat, but not before his wife notices him gawking.

“Oh, can you see him?” Claudia asks excitedly, standing on her tiptoes.

John smirks. There’s no way his petite wife, a head shorter than almost everyone around them, is going to find their son in the throng of teenagers. “You know, as unique as our kid is,” he says dryly, hand at the small of her back, guiding her to a seat in the maze of metal folding chairs, “the crimson graduation robe might be the great equalizer.”

Claudia throws her head back and laughs, dark hair framing her angular face. She’s been fretting lately about the streaks of grey, but John likes it. He kisses her temple. “How did I get so lucky?” he murmurs.

“Are you asking how we got our son through high school in one piece? Because personally I have no idea,” she counters.

“That was all you,” John tells her with a laugh.

She swats him with the back of her hand as “Pomp and Circumstance” begins to play. “I’m pretty sure you were there, too,” she whispers back, squeezing his hand. She waves across the aisle to Melissa and the Mahealanis as the superintendent offers opening remarks.

John settles back in his chair, can’t get comfortable, fidgets until Claudia presses a hand to his knee and gives him a stern look. It’s a ruse, of course - there’s obvious affection in her warm brown eyes, so like her son’s.

He watches with amusement as they get to the S’s and Claudia slides forward in his seat. But then the superintendent skips straight from Stevenson to Summers.

No Stilinski.

The sheriff startles awake, neck stiff from the way he’d nodded off. For a second, he thinks maybe he’s fallen asleep in his recliner again, but the chair he’s sitting in is every bit as hard as the metal folding chair in his dream.

All it takes is the click and hiss of the respirator forcing air into his son’s lungs to drag him back to reality. He blinks, waits for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, sees Melissa on the other side of Stiles’ bed.

“How - how long was I out?” he asks, rubbing his eyes.

“Five, six hours?” Melissa guesses. “It’s almost morning.”

John picks up Stiles’ limp hand, remembers how Claudia’s long, elegant fingers had curled around his in the dream. He shakes his head, reminds himself that his wife wouldn’t be there even if by some miracle Stiles makes it to graduation. When he glances back up, he realizes Melissa is looking at him strangely.

“Everything all right, Sheriff? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He’s struck by how close to right she is and for the briefest moment considers telling her about the dream. But John shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he says quickly. “Any - any change?”

Melissa smiles sadly. “I’m sorry, no.”

It takes John a second to realize why she’s apologizing. It’s one of those rare cases where no news _isn’t_ good news. Dr. Alexander had made that abundantly clear when he’d made his night rounds - if Stiles didn’t start improving, enough to schedule the second surgery, it would all be over in a day or two.

John reaches over, turns on the lamp so he can get a better look at his kid. He frowns. He didn’t thought it possible, but Stiles actually looks worse than he had the day before. His pale skin is now an ashy grey, and there’s a faint, sickly odor in the air that turns John’s stomach.

Melissa must notice his nose wrinkling because she explains, “It’s his bandages. I know - it isn’t pleasant, but it’s normal.”

John nods, wraps his hand around Stiles’ fingers. “He feels cold,” he tells Melissa. “I thought he was running a fever earlier.”

“It’s - ” Melissa absently smooths the edges of the tinfoil-looking blanket covering Stiles’ midsection. “He can’t regulate his body temperature right now.”

John has to ask, isn't sure he'll like the answer. “Is he - is he in pain, Melissa?”

“He’s on painkillers and sedated,” she says, eyes darting to Stiles’ IV line. “He shouldn’t be, no.”

But the smile she flashes him doesn’t reach her eyes. At least she tried.

*           *           *

Kira’s fingers snake through Scott’s as she asks, “Was that OK?”

“What?” Scott murmurs, not really paying attention to the kitsune even though she’s naked in his arms. “Oh - yeah, it was good. Great. Really, Kira. Really - great.”

He’s not expecting her to twist to face him. “Scott - ”

He should kiss her, comfort her, maybe even apologize. Because this wasn’t the plan. They had agreed to wait, and when Kira was ready, Scott would make it special. There would be flowers and candles and romantic music. He’d probably need Stiles’ help getting it all set up. Stiles would complain, loudly, about his own virginity and bad luck. But he’d still help Scott because they were best friends, and that’s what best friends do.

Now Stiles was fighting for his life, and Scott had hooked up clumsily with Kira, chasing small comforts.

“This isn’t how I wanted this to happen,” Scott confesses, sliding a palm over her hip, across her ass. He expects to feel arousal. Mostly, he feels numb.

Kira’s fingers are soft on his jaw. “It was still - nice,” she tells him. “And you don’t - I wanted this, OK?”

“OK,” Scott agrees, drawing her close and resting his chin on her head. “I’m probably going to shower, head back to the hospital soon.”

“What about your mom?” Kira asks, her nose tickling his collarbone.

“She can’t keep me away,” Scott declares, even though she’s already kicked him out once, for trying to sneak into the ICU. He gets that Stiles is in bad shape, but he’s not sure why he can’t see his best friend.

Maybe Scott will get to tell Stiles about this someday. About finally taking Kira to bed and only thinking about Stiles.

Stiles, who’s dying.

Kira’s voice is soft. “Maybe - maybe your mom’s right, Scott,” she says tentatively. “Maybe the best thing you can do at this point is get some sleep, and there will be better news - ”

He doesn’t mean to push her away. But he does. “I’m getting in the shower,” he says roughly. “I can - I’ll drop you off at your house on my way back to the hospital.”

In the bathroom, Scott yanks so hard on the faucet he almost dislodges it from the wall. He steps into the spray and tries not to listen in as Kira calls Mr. Yukimura for a ride.

*           *           *

On Sunday afternoon, Lydia’s mom presses the grocery list in her daughter’s hand and asks if she feels up to running a few errands.

“OK, Lydia,” the banshee mutters to herself, strapping her seat belt. “You can do this. Right on Kenwood, left on Cherry. Five minutes. Eggs, milk, bread.”

She takes a right on Kenwood and a left on Cherry and _still_ ends up at Beacon Hills Memorial on the opposite side of town. Lydia pulls into a spot close to the door.

“Is this what you want?” she asks, frustrated she’s been reduced to begging the powers that be from the driver’s seat of her Prius. She waves an accusatory finger at the Toyota logo on the steering wheel. “Fine. I’ll go in. But I’m not going to scream. That is not part of the deal.”

Her heels click across the linoleum on her way to the front desk. “Hi,” says Lydia, flashing the nurse - her name badge says _Nancy_ \- a smile with lots of teeth, “do you know where I might find Melissa McCall?”

“Are you one of Stiles’ friends?” Lydia nods. Nancy softens. “She’s up in the ICU with him. But you won’t be able to go back there if you’re not family. Tell the on-duty nurse, Matt, I said it was OK to page her. Third floor, hang a left.”

Lydia shares an elevator with a middle-aged man in a wheelchair whose daughter is visiting. “Now Dad, you need to listen to your nurse,” the young woman chides, wheeling him off on the second floor.

As soon as the door closes and the elevator begins to ascend, Lydia can hear the whispers. It doesn’t sound like anything at first, just the hum of white noise. But as she draws closer to the ICU, she can pick out the individual prayers for the sick and dying - including the sheriff’s plea for Stiles. She moves, trance-like, toward the glass doors.

“Miss,” the nurse calls. “Miss, you can’t go back there unless - ”

Melissa’s voice is warm, reassuring against the din. “Matt, it’s OK. I know this one.” She grabs Lydia’s arm and drags the banshee to a deserted waiting area. “Please tell me you didn’t just show up here.”

“Not ... exactly,” says Lydia, hoping Melissa won’t press her for the details. “Listen - I need to - I need to see him, OK?”

Melissa shakes her head. “I’m sorry, no. You can’t. Family only.”

“But - ”

“No, Lydia,” says Melissa. “The last thing I need is you disrupting an entire floor of very sick people with your scream.”

“I’m not - I won’t - ” Lydia stammers, not sure how to communicate why she needs so badly to see Stiles.

“Listen to me, Lydia. Stiles took a turn for the worse about an hour ago,” says Melissa. “I’ll be surprised if he makes it through the night. I didn’t - I haven’t told the sheriff yet. He went home to grab a quick shower. But I think he knows we’re just waiting around for the inevitable now.”

There’s a lump in Lydia’s throat she can’t quite swallow. “Of course,” she says, blinking back tears. “Of course. I’ll just - ”

“Oh, sweetie,” says Melissa, gathering her in a hug. “I know it hurts. I know.”

Lydia lets Melissa hold her for a full minute, takes the opportunity to steal her nurse’s ID from the pocket of her scrubs. “I’m just - is it OK if I sit here for awhile?”

Melissa promises to check on Lydia after she’s checked on a few patients down on the rehab floor. The banshee waits until Nurse Matt is distracted and uses the key card to swipe into the ICU. On the other side of the glass, the whispers are even louder.

The sign on Stiles’ door reads **STILINSKI, K.** in boldface letters. “Have you told anyone what the ‘K’ stands for?” she wonders aloud, pulling the door shut behind her. Stiles’ chest rises and falls with the ventilator as a monitor overhead tracks the too-fast hum of his heart. Lydia takes a step closer. “I hate hospitals,” she tells him. “You know I hate hospitals.”

She doesn’t tell him that if it were anyone else, she wouldn’t have bothered. Her hand brushes his.

For a second, the noise stops, and all Lydia sees is the white room. She recoils. Again, she can hear the whispers.

She grabs Stiles’ hand.

Now Lydia sees the white room clearly, Stiles sitting cross-legged atop the nemeton in his lacrosse jersey, squinting at a chessboard.

That’s when Lydia realizes her vantage point makes her Stiles’ opponent - and she has him in check.

Her instinct is to push her own king into danger, but Stiles grabs her wrist. “Come on, Lydia,” he says dryly, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Chess might not be your game, but surely you know that’s against the rules.”

Lydia tries to squirm away from him. “But you’ll die,” she insists, his grip tightening so much she’s certain his long fingers will leave bruises.

“Say it, Lydia,” Stiles urges. “Checkmate. Checkmate. Checkmate - ”

“No!”

But Lydia’s no longer in the white room. She’s not even at the hospital. She’s in the parking lot of the Organic Mart.

She grips the steering wheel and stares at the Toyota logo. “Right on Kenwood,” she mutters. “Left on Cherry.”

That’s when she notices the five little bruises on her wrist. They look like fingerprints.

*           *           *

Noshiko’s knock is insistent on her daughter’s bedroom door, three short raps before calling, “Kira! Are you almost ready?”

Kira, who’s been staring at the same text from Lydia for ten minutes, closes her eyes. With a little nod, she slides off her bed and pads to the door in the sweatpants and tatty t-shirt she’s been wearing all day.

“You are not dressed,” says Noshiko, crossing her arms.

“No,” says Kira, holding the edge of the door, “because I’m not going. Because going would be crazy. We can’t - not with Stiles in the hospital, OK?”

Noshiko taps her foot impatiently. “So I am supposed to cancel? After asking the Nakayamas to prepare you a special meal at their restaurant?”

Kira lets go of the door and retreats into her room. “I don’t want to celebrate my birthday,” she says glumly, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “Not when it could be the day Stiles dies.”

“Is that what this is about?” Noshiko asks, the mattress dipping under their combined weight. “You are worried Stiles will pass while we are out to dinner, or tomorrow on your special day? That it will forever taint the occasion?”

“Is that selfish?” Kira wants to know, chipping a fleck of pink paint from her thumbnail. “It feels selfish. I don’t want - I keep thinking about how it will never be my birthday, just the day Stiles died.”

“I’ll let you in on a secret,” Noshiko says, taking her daughter’s hand gently in her own. “When you have lived 900 years of them, they’re all just days. You, too, will lose track eventually.”

Kira laughs shakily. “So you’re saying February 25 isn’t your real birthday?”

“I took on my first human form during the second pentad of Usui around 1200, and it was your father who insisted we pick a day to celebrate. Now get dressed,” she says, standing.

“Can you for once pretend you’re a 16-year-old girl and not a 900-year-old kitsune?” Kira yells after her mother, frustrated.

“Tomorrow you will be 17,” Noshiko calls over her shoulder, “and you must remember, I never was a teenage girl.”

*           *           *

Dr. Alexander takes one look at Stiles’ vitals Sunday afternoon and swears loudly. “How long’s he been tachycardic?” he demands, rounding on Melissa.

“A few hours now,” she replies evenly, gently rubbing Stiles’ hand, waiting for John to return. “And don’t give me that look - I know Matt paged you.”

The doctor glares at her as he yanks up Stiles’ covers and begins unwrapping his residual limb. “Where’s the sheriff?”

“He went home to shower, but he’s on his - oh no,” she says, standing to get a better look at the thin, red lines spidering up what’s left of Stiles’ leg.

“Yeah, well, tell him to hurry,” says Alexander, nostrils flaring, “because I’m not waiting for him to open his kid back up.”

Melissa blinks. “You’re going to operate? Stiles isn’t strong - ”

“He’s _never_ going to be strong enough,” Alexander snaps. “Do you not get that? He’s going to die in this bed if I don’t operate. May as well give him a fighting chance.”

And he stalks out of the room before she has a chance to respond. She’s still standing there in stunned silence when Matt, the ICU nurse, comes to prep Stiles for surgery.

“You’ll call his dad?” Matt wants to know, checking the many monitors and machines keeping Stiles alive.

She nods, steps out in the hall so he can work. She’s pulling out her phone when she sees John at the end of the hallway, having traded his uniform for civilian clothes for the first time all weekend. She slides her phone back in her pocket, touches his shoulder lightly. “Feeling better?”

John cranes his neck, tries to look through the door’s slat window into Stiles’ room. She steps in front of him, blocks his view. “What’s going on, Melissa?”

“John,” she says softly, “they’re about to take him down to surgery.”

Melissa’s delivered a lot of bad news to patients' families. But watching John’s face fall is just heartwrenching. And then, before she can stop him, he pushes right past her into Stiles’ room.

“John, wait - ”

He turns on her. “Just let me see my son, Melissa,” he says, voice rough.

It gives Matt just enough time to cover Stiles’ abdominal pack back up. She closes her eyes, wishes she could unsee the mess of bloody gauze and plastic stretched tight over Stiles’ swollen organs. When she opens them again, Matt’s joined her in the doorway. She watches John smooth back Stiles’ hair.

“Son,” he says, “I just want you to know how proud your mom and I are of you.”

And he presses a kiss to Stiles’ temple. Melissa can feel the tears welling up in her eyes. But the sheriff’s are dry as he nods to the two nurses. “I’ll be in the waiting room,” he says.

Matt looks at her sympathetically as the door closes behind John. “Do you, uh, need - ”

Melissa interrupts with a nod. She waits until the door clicks closed before crossing the room to Stiles’ bedside.

“Don’t do this to him,” she pleads. “Just hold on, sweetie, OK?”

*           *           *

Deaton doesn’t even look up when Scott slips in the back door Sunday afternoon. “I thought I told you not to worry about coming in,” the veterinarian says.

“I couldn’t - I was going crazy sitting around my house,” Scott confesses.

“How’s Stiles?” Deaton asks.

The alpha lifts his shoulders, lets them fall. “I think I’m going to take a stab at that list, all the projects we never seem to have time for,” he says in lieu of an answer.

“Well, if you need a distraction,” says Deaton, a small smile on his lips, “you can start with the cat cages.”

The cats mewl and hiss as Scott transfers them one by one to the plastic crates Deaton uses to transport animals. Scott flashes his eyes at them as he gives the bank of wire cages a hard shove away from the wall. The tile is almost black, and Scott can’t remember the last time he scrubbed back here.

Then it comes to him. It was so long ago he’d needed Deaton’s help to move the cages.

Scott pours industrial-strength disinfectant on the floor and begins to mop, nostrils flaring as the bleach smell wafts through the clinic. His lungs burn, and his eyes begin to water. Still, it beats being alone in an empty house, waiting for his mom to call with bad news from Stiles’ bedside. He’s emptying a bucket of filthy mop water down the drain when the bell rings.

“I’m sorry - ” Deaton begins. “Derek?”

There’s a thud. Scott drops the bucket he’s holding and rushes to help Deaton. Derek’s lying in a heap on the floor.

“Help me get him on the table,” the veterinarian says. They each grab an arm and heave the unconscious werewolf off the floor. A long, hooked claw protrudes from Derek’s abdomen.

“What _is_ that?” Scott wants to know, helping the veterinarian peel back the tattered remains of Derek’s shirt.

“You’ll have to ask Derek,” says Deaton, reaching into a cabinet for a small, glass apothecary jar holding two bright blue stones. He pries Derek’s jaw open, pops the rock in. “Hold him.”

Scott does. Deaton yanks the claw from Derek’s gut, blood spraying across the exam room.

Derek stirs feebly, the stone clattering against his teeth. He spits it out. The once-blue pebble is now an ashy grey.

“What did you put in his mouth?” Scott demands. “What's going on? What happened to him?”

“You’ll have to ask Derek,” Deaton says again, watching the injured werewolf with interest as blood continues to seep from the wound. “Give it a minute. Wait for him to heal.”

Scott stares at the veterinarian, then breaks Derek’s wrist.

Deaton sighs. “Or you could do that.”

Derek lunges off the table at Scott with a roar, fangs out, blood glistening on his newly-knitted skin. Before he can stop himself, Scott wolfs out, too, returning the growl and letting his eyes flash red. The older werewolf retreats, breathing heavily and rubbing his wrist.

“Why’d you do that?” Derek demands.

Scott shrugs. “You weren’t healing.”

“Yes, I was,” says Derek through gritted teeth.

Scott plucks up the bloody claw Deaton extracted and waves it in the other werewolf’s face. “What the hell is this?"

Derek flinches. It's involuntary, such a small gesture that Scott's sure most humans wouldn't notice it. "It doesn't matter."

"No? It doesn't matter that you almost got killed fighting off this - this _thing_?"

"I didn't almost get killed," Derek insists hotly. "And give me that, before you impale me with it."

This time it's Scott who flinches, at the word _impale_. It occurs to him that Derek's wound is not all that different than the one Stiles suffered in the bus crash. Scott lets Derek snatch back the claw and turns to Deaton. "That thing you gave him," he asks, "what was it?"

"A bezoar," says Deaton. "A Druid stone that can cure cuts from a poisoned blade. Or, in this case, a poisoned _claw_."

"Do they - do they work on anything else?"

"Yes," says Deaton, taking the claw from Derek in the world's most morbid game of hot potato. "But for the kind of injury I believe you have in mind? No, a bezoar will not work."

And he leaves the room.

Scott rounds on Derek. "You went after it, didn't you?" he demands. "That thing, the one you were telling us about before - before - "

But Scott can't bring himself to say it. Derek crosses his arms against his bare chest. "I thought you had enough to worry about."

Scott snorts, matching Derek's stance. "Yeah? So what, you decided to give me one more?"

"I was _trying_ to take care of the problem."

"You're not the alpha! It's not your call!" says Scott. "Just like it wasn't your call to stop me biting Stiles."

"Scott - "

"He's _dying_." Scott's voice cracks. "He's too - it's too much for a human to take."

Derek shuffles uncomfortably, doesn't uncross his arms. "What do you want from me, Scott? Permission? Do you want me to tell you to go for it?"

"Would it really be so bad?" Scott asks desperately. "He'd be like us, he could - "

"His leg wouldn't grow back," Derek interjects.

"How do you know?" Scott counters.

Derek shrugs. “OK, Scott. Bite Stiles. I can’t stop you. I’m not as strong, or as fast. But I know a thing or two about making werewolves, and people who don’t want the bite don’t make very good ones.”

“ _I_ didn’t want the bite,” Scott fires back.

“Like I said,” says Derek coolly, “I can’t stop you.”

They glare at each other. Finally, Scott has to look away. “Why do you think he turned down the bite?”

For a moment, Derek look conflicted. But he’s saved by Deaton, who interjects, “Only Stiles can answer that question.”

Scott turns at the sound of the veterinarian’s soothing voice. "What do you think?" he asks. "Is it - is it OK to turn someone to save their life?"

"Are you asking me as an emissary, or - "

"Would he survive it? If I bit him now, would his odds improve?"

Deaton shakes his head. "I don't know, Scott. That's not the answer you're looking for, and I'm sorry."

Scott's shoulders slump. "I'll - I'll go finish with the cat cages," he mumbles, slinking off to the back room before either of them can stop him. He picks up the mop and bucket, strains his ears when Deaton asks to inspect Derek's wound.

"Does this hurt?" the veterinarian asks. Scott can only assume he's prodding at Derek's side.

Still, he's surprised when the other werewolf says, "Yes."

"It'll likely be morning before it's fully healed," Deaton advises. "Derek, I know you want to help. But getting yourself hurt so you can feel yourself heal doesn't solve anything."

Derek grunts. "That's not what - "

"You know better than most that there are things in this world outside our control," Deaton continues. "Factors that - "

Scott's phone begins to ring. _MOM-CELL_ flashes on the screen.

His stomach turns as he pushes open the exam room door. "Mom's calling," he says hollowly. "I can't - "

"Answer the phone, Scott," Deaton says gently. "You can't know it's bad news until you answer the phone."

He jerks his head in a half-nod before answering, "Hello?"

“Scott,” says Melissa, “listen - they’re going to go ahead and operate.”

“What?” Scott asks, incredulous. “I thought - isn’t he too weak?”

“He’s - he needs the surgery, sweetie.”

“Not if he won’t survive it!” Scott insists, angry.

“Scott, listen to me,” his mom says. “I know it seems - I know it seems impossible, but there’s a chance. There’s always - ”

“Stop it,” Scott interrupts. “I don’t need your platitudes.”

And he hangs up the phone, breathing heavily. Deaton and Derek both have their arms crossed. Scott swipes at his tears with the back of his hand, sniffing once. “Stiles is headed into surgery.”

Deaton doesn’t reply, but Derek nods. “I’ll drive you.”

Scott wants to be mad at Derek, wants to know more about the claw Deaton plucked from the older werewolf’s gut, but mostly he wishes he could go back in time and take Derek’s warning about whatever Malia saw on the preserve seriously.

Then he and Stiles wouldn’t have been on the damn bus.

Scott opens his mouth, starts to tell Deaton he’ll finish the list later, can’t find the words. He doesn’t have to.

“Go,” Deaton says, squeezing Scott’s shoulder. “Stiles needs you.”

They’re almost to Beacon Hills Memorial before Derek volunteers, “It’s called a berserker.”

Scott, who’s spent the entire ride staring at the window and chewing his thumbnail, replies, “A man who wears the skin of a bear.”

“How’d you - ”

“Argent told me,” Scott interrupts. “Before he left town.”

“I’ll take care of it,” says Derek, pulling into the hospital parking lot.

Scott grabs the older werewolf’s arm. “Not tonight you won’t.”

He’s got a little argument ready, words to convince Derek to stay. So it’s a surprise when the older werewolf nods and kills the engine.

“OK,” Derek agrees.

Lydia’s already inside, legs crossed, hands folded in her lap. “I just talked to your mom,” she tells Scott, “and am supposed to tell you - I’m quoting here - ‘It’s going to be at least six hours, so shoo.’”

Scott’s not sure if there’s a polite way to tell the banshee her presence at the hospital makes him uneasy. He glances at Derek, expects to see hesitation mirrored on the older werewolf’s face, but Derek’s already dropped into the seat next to Lydia.

Scott clears his throat. “Lydia - are you sure it’s a good idea for you to be here?”

“What?” Lydia deadpans. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of the wailing woman.”

 _No, I’m scared you’ll wail for Stiles._ Frustrated, Scott drops into the chair next to her. Except he’s back on his feet a second later. “Kira?” he says, surprised to see the kitsune burst into the hospital. “What - how did you even - ”

Kira throws her arms around Scott’s neck. “Lydia called me,” she says. “I hope - is it OK that I came?”

“It’s - it’s better than OK,” says Scott, breathing in deeply. Her hair is sweet and clean. “Listen about yesterday - I’m so sorry. I was an idiot, I was - ”

Kira draws back, keeping one hand on his shoulder. “It’s OK, Scott. It’s - it’s really OK. You were upset, you were worried about Stiles. I get that.”

“No, it’s - ” Scott pauses, noticing the first time the conservative purple dress she’s wearing. It looks like something Noshiko would pick out. “Where were you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” says Kira. When Scott starts to protest, she shakes her head and drags him by the wrist to the two open chairs next to Lydia.

*           *           *

The seventeenth time Scott gets up to pace the waiting room, Derek throws out an arm to stop the alpha. “Sit down,” he growls, trying to keep an ear on the operating room. It’s mostly beeps and suction and indistinct chatter, but occasionally he’ll get snippets on how Stiles is doing.

“Why?” Scott wants to know. He could pull his arm free from Derek’s grasp if he wanted - he’s stronger and the older werewolf’s still healing - but he doesn’t. He just stares at Derek, curious.

“Because,” says Derek, nostrils flaring with annoyance as he gives Scott a little push toward the seat next to Kira, “I can’t hear anything over the squeak of your stupid shoes.”

Scott’s eyes widen. “You mean - you can - ”

“ _Yes_ ,” Derek snaps. “You could, too, if you’d just pay attention.”

Immediately, Scott returns to his chair, face screwed up in concentration as he attempts to sift through the hospital sounds. Derek doubts the younger werewolf will have much luck, but he holds his tongue. He’s not sure Scott needs to hear the heated argument happening in the OR about his best friend’s damaged organs.

Or the sound of Stiles’ body thumping against the table when the doctor has to defibrillate his heart. Derek tenses as the teen flatlines, memories of the hospital siege tugging at the back of his mind.

_“What about these?” Stiles asks, brandishing a pair of heart paddles._

_Derek glances over. “Do you know how to use those?”_

_“Well, no.”_

_“Put ’em down.”_

The heart monitor in the OR continues to wail one long, continuous note. Derek braces for it. Any second now the doctor will call time of death, and Lydia will blow out his eardrum with her scream -

But then Stiles’ heart begins to beat again, reluctantly at first, then slowly, rhythmically. Derek doesn’t get a chance to exhale before the doctor swears and announces, “We’re going to lose him if I keep chasing bleeders. This kidney has to come out.”

That’s when he notices Lydia, her white-knuckled grip on the chair across from him, working her jaw through a silent refrain.

_Don’t scream don’t scream don’t_

Derek drags Lydia out of the waiting room.

“What are you _doing_?” she demands, trying in vain to wrench her arm away from him.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Derek hisses.

After a few more frustrated tugs, Lydia stops trying to shake the werewolf’s iron-clad grasp in favor of a glare. “I’m _trying_ ,” she says coolly, “not to scream.”

“Yeah? Try harder,” Derek snaps, his own heart still racing from Stiles’ brush with death. “And work on your poker face.”

“You want me to work on my poker face?” Lydia asks, incredulous. Her voice rising, she spits, “I won’t scream. I won’t visit Stiles in the white room. I won’t show up at crime scenes. I won’t find the dead bodies. I won’t - you know what? Go to hell. Just go to _hell_ , Derek. I don’t give a damn if my face isn’t stoic enough for you.”

But Derek’s not listening. “You visited Stiles in the white room?”

“ _Yes_ ,” snaps Lydia. “And I’m not telling you anything else until you drop my arm.”

Derek’s not proud of the five finger-shaped contusions he leaves behind. “When did you visit Stiles in the white room?”

Lydia shakes her head. “I don’t - maybe I imagined it. He was playing chess on the nemeton. He told me to scream.”

Derek’s heart is pounding again. “Don’t scream,” he says.

“I know,” says Lydia, rolling her eyes as she flounces off.

It’s not possible. Lydia’s abilities only manifested recently, and everything Derek’s read about wailing women says only the most powerful banshees can cheat death. When he told her not to scream, he hadn’t expected her to control it, not for a minute.

Except she’d somehow followed Stiles into the white room, to the nemeton. Had she -

Derek’s thoughts are interrupted by an angry teenage alpha.

“If you’re going to pick fights with Lydia,” Scott growls, “then get out of here.”

“It - ” Derek runs a hand through his hair, strikes a conciliatory tone “ - it wasn’t my intention.”

He half-expects Scott to flash his eyes. But the alpha just gives Derek an appraising look. “All right,” says Scott, placated. “No fighting.”

Derek jerks his head, pulls his wallet from his back pocket. “Do you want anything from the vending machine?”

“No, I - ” Scott stops, clears his throat. “What’s a nephrectomy?”

Derek blinks. “It’s - the removal of a kidney,” he says reluctantly, still holding out his wallet. “Did you - ”

“Yeah,” Scott interrupts. “I heard - I heard one of the nurses say it. That’s - it sounds bad.”

“You can live with one kidney,” Derek says.

Scott hums a little under his breath, considering. “One leg, one kidney,” he mutters.

“Stiles didn’t want the bite,” Derek reminds Scott, and he buys them all over-priced vending machine candy.

He tries not to read too much into Lydia’s cool _thanks_ as he hands her the Reese’s package.

Kira unwraps a peanut butter cup with a sad smile. “I wonder if Stiles ever found a quarter on Thursday.” Scott and Lydia nod, but Derek just stares at the kitsune. Kira’s cheeks flush. “He never has money for the vending machine, so he’s always asking us if we have change. I usually do, but on Thursday, I was short a quarter. I didn’t see him after that. I don’t know if - you know what? It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” says Derek kindly. Back in the operating room, he can hear Stiles’ doctor call for more suction as the teen’s heart beats erratically. He glances at Scott, but the alpha’s got an arm slung around Kira, isn’t tuned in.

Lydia, on the other hand - the banshee’s mouth is slightly agape, tongue twisting to form the two words Derek had said to her the morning after the bus crash. But when she notices he’s watching, she purses her lips.

*           *           *

“His blood pressure keeps tanking,” Nancy tells Melissa in a low whisper on her fifth trip to the nurse’s station in as many hours. “Dr. Alexander will try to save part of the kidney, but - ” Nancy shrugs helplessly.

Melissa glances over her shoulder at the sheriff, who looks like he’s in some sort of a trance. He keeps running his thumb over his slightly parted lips. She knows that tic, one of Stiles’, wonders if he picked it up from his dad or the other way around. “I’ll tell John,” Melissa says with a nod.

But when she slides back into the seat next to him, what she says is, “I’m sorry. Nancy didn’t know anything. It’s - there isn’t always a lot of news during difficult procedures.”

If the sheriff knows she’s lying, he doesn’t call her on it. “Difficult procedure,” he mutters, another stroke of his fingers across his mouth. His lips are starting to look chapped. “Do you - am I being selfish?”

“Selfish?” Melissa repeats.

“I know the odds,” John continues. “I know this - it doesn’t end well for Stiles. It feels selfish putting him through it.”

“Giving your son a chance isn’t selfish.”

The minute hand on the wall clock is creeping toward midnight. John clears his throat, begins to drum his fingers on the chair arm between them. “He’ll be out soon, won’t he? Dr. Alexander said it would take about six hours.”

Melissa takes his hand in hers. “As long as they’re in there, it means Stiles is still fighting.”

*           *           *

Stiles isn’t surprised to find himself in the white room, playing chess atop the nemeton.

He has no idea who his opponent is - he’ll make a move, get distracted, try to listen as the pack buzzes in his ear - and when he looks down again, the other player’s pieces will have moved.

Stiles supposes he’s in the hospital because he keeps hearing Melissa. Melissa talking to his dad, Melissa talking to doctors, Melissa talking to _him_. Nothing she says gives Stiles much hope for getting out of here, especially not when she asks the sheriff, “We - we need permission to amputate Stiles’ leg.”

He frowns, glances down. He’s still got both his legs.

He’s also in check.

Someone taps him on the shoulder. Stiles turns around.

“Mom?”

Claudia smiles. It’s a sad smile. She opens her mouth, says something Stiles can’t hear. But he knows what she’s trying to say, recognizes the way his given name looks on her lips. His heart starts hammering in his chest because he knows why she’s here.

She holds out her hand.

He wants to take it. It would be so easy.

But even here, he’s still Stiles, easy to distract. And he can still hear his friends, his pack, their voices lifting up from the chess board.

Lydia’s voice is always the easiest to pick out. “Don’t scream,” she says, over and over. “Don’t scream.”

Then there’s Scott, pleading with Stiles to stay with him. “I tried on my own,” he says. “I can’t do it.”

“Is that selfish?” Kira whispers.

Stiles nods. It’s selfish, but -

Behind him, his mother holds out her hand. She looks older than Stiles remembers, the age she’d be now if she hadn’t died. She says his name again. Stiles still can’t hear her, just the chessboard.

“Only Stiles can answer that question,” Deaton is saying.

Stiles looks down. Two legs. He still has two legs. He takes a step backward. He can keep his leg if he goes with his mother, he’s pretty sure.

“Stay with me, Stiles. Keep talking to me.”

Derek’s voice startles him. Stiles hesitates for a moment, hears Melissa again.

“Don’t do this to him,” she pleads. “Just hold on, sweetie, OK?”

But why - what would it matter to Derek if Stiles followed his mother? There are tears shining on Claudia’s cheeks as Stiles turns to face her. He reaches his hand out, sure he’s close enough to brush her fingers with his. But she’s still out of reach.

It dawns on Stiles that Melissa doesn’t mean Derek. She’s talking about his dad.

“If you can see her,” John says, miserable, “if you’re with Mom - I wouldn’t blame you for going with her, son.”

Stiles’ head snaps back at the sound of the sheriff’s voice, and it occurs to him for the first time that following his mother means leaving his dad all alone. He hesitates. He decides to go back to the chessboard, hear John’s voice for the last time.

“I just want you to know how proud your mom and I are of you,” his dad’s saying.

There’s a lump in Stiles’ throat. But he’s ready now. He turns, stumbles. His leg is missing at the thigh. Tears sting his eyes when he sees how far away his mother has gotten.

He can’t reach her on one leg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I place the blame for this fic squarely on that trippy dream sequence where Stiles' leg is stuck in the bear trap.
> 
> Thanks, as always, to my tireless beta, [lazaefair](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lazaefair), who's followed me from fandom to fandom (and, let's be real, state to state) without protest.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’d been in a bad mood when he and Scott got in the Jeep. Stiles knows he drives too fast when he’s mad. “Was it my fault?” he rasps.
> 
> John’s grip on Stiles’ hand loosens. “No,” the sheriff says at once. He looks sad, Stiles thinks. He takes advantage of his dad’s momentary distraction and tries to touch his leg again. John notices just as Stiles’ fingers make contact with gauze. “Stiles, you have to stop that. You’re going to tear out your stitches.”
> 
> That’s when Stiles realizes his leg isn’t there anymore.

Six hours creep into seven creep into eight. Melissa gets up around 2:30 to grab two cups of lukewarm coffee. John accepts his wordlessly, chokes it down black in a single gulp. He plays with his wedding ring.

At some point Melissa drifts off. Heavy footfalls on the linoleum rouse her a little past 4:00. She nudges the sheriff, so zoned out he hasn’t noticed Dr. Alexander approaching. The doctor’s still in his scrub cap, arms crossed, mouth set in a thin line. Melissa’s heart sinks. _We did everything we could -_

But the brusque doctor surprises her. “He’s alive, but it wasn’t pretty. He needed multiple transfusions, his blood pressure kept tanking, and I had to cut out 70 percent of his kidney.”

“He’s alive?” John repeats.

Melissa can tell Alexander is fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes, but I don’t want to wait another three days to open him back up. We’ll push fluids for the next 24 hours and schedule another surgery for the morning.”

But it’s clear the sheriff isn’t registering anything the doctor is saying. “Alive,” John says again, trembling. “Alive.”

“I’ll come back,” the doctor snaps, leaving Melissa to deal with the unraveling sheriff.

“John, Stiles made it through surgery,” she says.

“I know,” he manages between sobs. “I know.”

And that’s when Melissa makes her decision. She reaches across John’s shoulders and pulls his head to her chest. He tries to push her away, but she doesn’t let him. “Shhh,” she murmurs. “Shhh.”

“I didn’t think he’d make it through the surgery,” John admits a minute or two later, still sniffling. “What kind of father - ”

He breaks off. Melissa helps him back into a sitting position, squeezes his hand. She hadn’t expected Stiles to make it through the surgery, either, but - it’s immaterial now. “It’s not the time, John.”

The sheriff nods, still blinking back a few stray tears. She holds his hand until the doctor returns. Alexander, now clad in his lab coat, takes a seat next to John, who is still flushed from his breakdown.

“I’m going to take you back to see him,” says Alexander cautiously, “but after that, you need to go home to rest. Your son is stable. I’ll have someone call if that changes.”

John manages a small nod. Melissa senses he’s still embarrassed the doctor saw him cry. “Dr. Alexander, can you walk the sheriff through the surgery?”

She expects another eye roll, but Alexander just clears his throat. “I’m not going to lie to you,” he starts. “It was a rough procedure, and I expect it to be touch-and-go tomorrow as well. We’re still relying on the temporary abdominal pack. If I can get Stiles closed up, his odds will improve a lot. With the partial nephrectomy and small bowel resection, that might be possible tomorrow. But it might not. He’s pretty swollen at the moment. If the edema continues, we’ll look at skin grafts.”

Another nod. “You said - I could see him?”

“You might - well, you’ll recognize him,” says Alexander, rising to his feet, “but you’re not going to like what you see, Sheriff. In addition to the kidney, I cut out his spleen and part of his liver. It takes a toll.”

John stands, too, looks at her expectantly. “Go,” Melissa says, waving him on, “I need to tell the kids he made it through surgery.”

She waits until they’re down the hall, listens as Alexander explains how much kidney function he thinks Stiles will retain. She wonders how much the werewolves have picked up.

Turns out, most of it. Scott pulls her into a bone-crushing hug. “Can he do it?” he asks. “Can he make it through another surgery?”

“All of you,” Melissa says, waving Kira, Lydia and Derek closer, “I want you to listen to me. This is good news. But it doesn’t change the fact that Stiles’ injuries are very, very serious. He needs rest, the sheriff needs privacy, and we all need sleep. So go on, get out of here. Go to school tomorrow, at least for a few hours. OK?”

No one moves. “What about you?” Scott asks.

“Me? I’m going to go sit with Stiles,” Melissa replies.

She doesn’t like the way Scott’s eyes scan the empty waiting room. He takes a step closer. “If - if you’re going to sit with him, maybe I could - ”

“No,” Melissa interrupts, “absolutely not. I’m sorry, Scott. ICU rules. You have to be 18.”

“But - ”

“Nope,” she says. “And I don’t want to catch you sneaking in, either. Now give me a hug and get out of here.”

She’s expecting Scott to fight her on this, but after several seconds, her son nods and lets her wrap him in a tight hug. She gives him a kiss on the cheek before shooing him toward the exit, pretending not to hear him ask Kira for a ride.

That leaves Lydia and Derek.

“You’re not 18, either,” Melissa says pointedly to the banshee.

“No,” Lydia agrees. She looks - _thoughtful_ , but Melissa’s too tired to read much into it. “Can I ask you a question?”

Melissa crosses her arms. “I can’t share private medical information with you, Lydia. Not without the sheriff’s permission.”

“It’s not - did you see me earlier? Before Stiles’ surgery?” Lydia wants to know.

Melissa’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “I swear, Lydia, if you tried to sneak in - ”

“I didn’t sneak in,” Lydia interrupts. “I just - I haven’t been sleeping. I couldn’t remember what I did this afternoon.”

Melissa steers the banshee toward the door. “Go home, Lydia.”

Now it’s just her and Derek. She turns, ready to go toe-to-toe with the werewolf if she has to, but Melissa softens when he says, “I’m over 18.”

“Is that so?” Melissa asks, a wry smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Derek shrugs. “I could sit with Stiles while the two of you get some rest,” Derek offers.

Melissa’s answer should be an automatic no. Derek’s not family, and if Stiles looks as bad as the doctor says, he’s not going to want his friends to see him like this. If that’s even what Derek is.

She settles on, “I don’t think so.”

“You said it yourself,” Derek counters. “Everyone needs sleep.”

"I'll tell the sheriff you offered," says Melissa. "I'm sure he'll be appreciative."

That's when Derek tries a different tack. "I can take Stiles' pain."

"He's - " But lying doesn't seem worth it, not when they both know how bad Stiles' injuries are. "The sheriff has to be OK with it."

She motions for Derek to follow her. The on-duty ICU nurse pretends not to notice as she swipes both of them in.

"Wait here," she tells Derek before rapping lightly on Stiles' door. The sheriff is standing at his son's bedside, looking like he desperately wants something to do with his hands but is too afraid to touch Stiles, who looks as bad as the doctor warned.

John opens with, "I don't - will it hurt him if I touch him?"

Melissa steps forward and brushes Stiles' lank hair off his forehead. "Just be gentle."

John nods, touches Stiles' jaw. Even his face is puffy, and the sheriff recoils after a few seconds. "The doctor says he's stable," John says, hoarse, "but I'm just so afraid if I leave - "

He doesn't finish, doesn't have to. They both know he's talking about Claudia. Melissa smooths Stiles' bedsheets. "You should trust Dr. Alexander," she says softly. "Not taking care of yourself won't help Stiles heal."

"No."

"Derek offered to stay with him tonight," she says casually.

"Derek?" John repeats.

Melissa nods, checks Stiles' drain. "I think it's a good idea," she says. "We both need sleep, and werewolves have the ability to take away some pain."

"Right," says the sheriff, like he's only just remembered this is what they usually talk about, werewolves and the rest of Beacon Hills' magical menagerie.

Melissa walks around the bed and tugs on John's arm. "C'mon, Sheriff."

He passes Derek in the hall without a word.

"I wouldn't read too much into it," she tells the werewolf in a low voice as John leaves the ICU, "he's - "

"He's fine," Derek interrupts.

Melissa's hand is on the door handle. "I should warn you," she says.

But Derek shrugs. "You know I was there, right?" he asks. "After the bus crash?"

Suddenly the werewolf's interest in Stiles makes sense to Melissa. She pushes down on the handle. "It's not pretty."

Derek's nose twitches, but he doesn't hesitate. He just steps forward and takes Stiles' hand. Even in the dim light, Melissa can see Derek's veins darken as pain spiders up his arm. The werewolf winces.

"Even with the pain meds?" Melissa asks, decides she doesn’t want an answer. "I probably should have warned you about the smell, huh?"

"It's fine," says Derek, his breathing a little ragged.

"Don't overdo it," Melissa warns. "Call me if anything changes?"

Derek clasps his other hand around Stiles' as she pulls the door shut.

*           *           *

Eventually Derek’s still-healing insides force him to drop Stiles’ hand. He backs away from the teen’s bedside, panting, every cell screaming in protest as he collapses into the chair. Already there’s an indentation in the vinyl from John’s gun belt. Derek clutches at his side. He’s pretty sure he’s bleeding again where Deaton extracted the berserker claw.

The laugh is involuntary. “I don’t know what smelled worse,” Derek says, hunching a shoulder in Stiles’ direction, “that _thing_ , or your bandages.” He flinches. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t funny.”

Of course, the only response Derek gets is a click as the ventilator helps Stiles exhale. The werewolf drags the chair closer, tries to take more of the teen’s pain. But he’s forced to drop Stiles’ hand as his own flesh threatens to rip back open.

“I’m sorry about that, too,” Derek says. “I wish I could do more to help you. I could if I hadn’t gone off to get myself hurt. That’s what Deaton thinks I was doing. Trying to get myself hurt, see if I could still bleed.”

Derek can still bleed, judging by the way his shirt is sticking to his skin.

“I knew it was stupid,” Derek confesses, “going after a berserker alone. Do you know what a berserker is? It’s a warrior who dons the skin of a bear to channel animal-like ferocity. Except the ritual to create a berserker drives most men mad. For years I didn’t think they were real. A werewolf urban legend, a story my Uncle Fred would tell to frighten us before bed. But Argent - ”

This time, Derek ignores the pain in his own abdomen as he drains Stiles’. “I went after the berserker because I had to do something. I had to do something because you’re lying in this bed, in more pain than most people could ever imagine - and that’s on me. You were dying. You knew it. Scott knew it. But I was selfish. I couldn’t watch another - another - ”

For a second, Derek’s back _there_ , the clearing behind his family’s house where he and Laura used to play, leaves rustling in the wind, his dad’s booming laugh, seconds before the tree came crashing down.

He blinks, and the trees are gone. It’s just him and Stiles in the Beacon Hills Memorial ICU, air escaping the teen’s lungs with each hiss of the vent.

“You didn’t want the bite,” says Derek, his fingertips just brushing Stiles’. “The bite is a gift, yet you didn’t want it. Were you worried about it taking? Did you not want it on Scott’s conscience if you bled out? Or were you worried about the shape you’d take after the nogitsune? Because - because you would have been fine. You’re not Jackson. You’re not the void.”

Derek’s not sure why he keeps talking. He’d done the same thing when Peter was in the ICU after the fire, spending long hours rambling at his uncle’s bedside while Laura took care of paperwork. Insurance forms. Funeral arrangements. Everything they’d need for a new life. A pack of two.

He’s never asked Peter if he heard any of it. But Derek had confessed about Kate, so maybe.

“You know what else Uncle Fred used to say?” Derek asks Stiles. No answer. “That you need humans in a pack, to keep the werewolves connected to their humanity. Peter always scoffed when he’d say it - of course Fred would think that, he’d had two human daughters - but not my mom. She always took special care of my cousins.

“Once, Alice - she was a few years younger than me, but not as young as you - fell out of a tree and broke her wrist. She’d been following me, and I laughed at her, told her she wasn’t brave enough to keep climbing. Mom was furious. And every morning for a month, until Alice got her cast off, she’d have one of the betas break my wrist before school. ‘Let this be a lesson,’ she’d tell me. ‘A pack must take better care of its humans than you have.’”

Derek stares at Stiles, at all the wires and tubes snaking out from under the blanket, at the empty space where the teen’s left leg is missing. “We should have taken better care of you.”

*           *           *

Henry Tate’s heart beats jackrabbit-fast as he drives his daughter to school Monday morning. Malia wants to ignore it, tries to ignore it, notes for her Constitution test open in her lap, but it just keeps hammering from the seat next to her, just like the hares she used to catch and kill.

Finally, she can’t take it anymore. “Something’s wrong,” says Malia.

“What?” says Mr. Tate sharply, almost catching a curb with his tire. “Nothing’s wrong, sweetie. Why would you say that?”

Malia can’t exactly tell her father the truth - he still thinks she was kidnapped and held against her will in the woods for a decade, not that she’s a werecoyote with supernatural hearing who can listen to heartbeats and the lengthy phone calls he has with the social worker every week - so she shrugs.  “You’ve barely said two words to me this morning.”

“I assumed you needed to study,” says Mr. Tate, glancing over at the ragged notecards Malia has been using to quiz herself all weekend. He reads, “What’s the main job of the executive branch?”

“To enforce the laws,” Malia recites. “You’re sure there’s nothing wrong?”

Mr. Tate pulls into the parking lot, lets the truck idle. “I just - you know you can call me today, right?”

The werecoyote snaps a rubber band around the index cards. “Why would I need to call you?”

“You were pretty upset this weekend,” says Mr. Tate, drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel. “You know, when you found out Stiles had been hurt in the accident.”

Right. Malia tugs a little too hard on the zipper of her backpack, almost splits the seam. “But you don’t even like Stiles.”

Mr. Tate frowns. “Stiles helped bring you back to me, Malia. Why don’t you think I like him?”

“All those times you yelled at him?”

“For dropping you off after your curfew, sure,” says Mr. Tate. “But Malia, surely you - you get that I can be frustrated with Stiles for disrespecting my rules without wishing him harm, right?”

Malia blinks. “No.”

Mr. Tate sighs, pulling his daughter into a hug. He holds her at arm’s length. “I like Stiles,” he says. “I hope he can make a full recovery. Now go, before you’re late for your test.”

Malia gives Mr. Tate a little wave as he drives off. She takes a deep breath and whispers the three branches of government to herself as she walks past the faded _Beacon Hills Technical Academy_ sign. According to Stiles, the building had once been the crown jewel of the district, home to a popular culinary arts program. But when property values declined and people started moving out of Beacon Hills, the school had closed. The building sat empty for years, until so many students were on an “alternative pathway” they had to be sent here instead of the main high school. It’s actually too big for the few dozen students enrolled, but that’s the one thing Malia likes about it. There’s always an empty classroom where she can hide.

Except today her favorite spot, the old pastry classroom with its metal tray carts and industrial stand mixers, is already occupied. The acrid smell of cigarette smoke drifts out and burns the werecoyote’s nostrils.

“So what did you end up doing Friday?” Nadine asks, who had - like Malia - been suspended for fighting. “My mom had no idea school was canceled, so I went to see Hector.”

“Lucky you,” grumbles Julia, who’s been arrested twice for shoplifting. “I had to watch my little sisters.”

“Yeah, well, my day off was _fabulous_ ,” Nadine brags. “I wish school would get canceled more often.”

Julia takes a long drag from her cigarette. “A bunch of people died, Nadine,” she admonishes.

Nadine snorts. “Yeah? And can’t you just imagine what it’s like at the high school today? I for one am glad we’ll miss all the sobbing, people pretending they lost their best friend when the most they ever talked to one of the dead kids was in English class.”

Of course, that’s when the seam of Malia’s bag splits, scattering pencils and papers all over the hallway. She hears Julia hiss, “What was that?”

The classroom door swings open. Nadine’s eyes are narrowed suspiciously, but she relaxes at the sight of Malia frantically trying to gather her belongings. “Relax, Jules. It’s only Malia.” She doesn’t offer to help the werecoyote. “Hey, you used to be over at the high school, right?”

“Yes,” Malia says shortly, careful not to flash her eyes.

“Know any of the dead kids?”

Malia has Nadine by the throat so fast she can’t cry out. The werecoyote slams the other girl back into the wall with a dull thud. Malia thinks her eyes might be blue, isn’t sure. Her canines quiver in her jaw. She snarls.

Julia grabs Malia’s elbow. “Let her go!”

She’s not strong enough, of course, to tear the werecoyote off her friend. But Malia releases Nadine without further prompting. She’s breathing heavily, but still human.

Nadine lunges at Malia, has to be dragged back by Julia. “What the hell is your problem?” she demands, rubbing her neck.

Malia just turns and walks away.

“I said, what the hell is your problem?” Nadine shouts after Malia.

“Cool it, Nadine,” Julia is saying. “Sometimes I think you want to go back to juvie.”

“She started it!”

The tears are hot on Malia’s cheeks. She takes refuge in the girls bathroom, the one with the broken window students aren’t supposed to use, and pulls out her cell phone. She types in a number she knows by heart.

He picks up on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Dad?” she croaks. “Dad, it’s me. It’s - Malia.”

“Sweetheart.” On the other end of the line, Peter Hale’s voice is silky smooth. “I thought you’d never call.”

*           *           *

“Kira. Kira. _Kira_.”

The kitsune startles awake, her hair falling like a curtain in front of her face, several strands stuck to her lip. The too-bright fluorescent lighting in her father’s classroom is blinding. “Did I fall asleep?” she asks, blinking.

There’s an amused smile on her father’s face. “Yes.”

“Class is over?”

“Yes,” he tells her. “In fact, it’s almost lunchtime.”

“You let me sleep through _three classes_?” Kira asks, horrified.

“You were tired!” Ken insists. “But I’m afraid you can’t stay here any longer. I just got an email saying my evaluation from Friday has been rescheduled for next period.”

Kira groans, shoving her book in her bag. “I can’t believe you didn’t wake me up.”

“Don’t worry,” Ken calls after her, “you didn’t snore!”

All Kira wants to do is duck into a bathroom and fix her hair before her next class, but no such luck. Someone is calling her name.

“Hey Kira - Kira, wait!”

The crowd parts for the tall, lanky lacrosse player. His name escapes Kira - Joe, maybe, or is it John? - and she’s surprised when he grabs her by the elbow with the arm that’s not in a sling. A line of butterfly bandages covers his temple.

“You don’t know my name,” he says flatly.

Kira cringes. “No?”

“Jack,” he says briskly. “Jack Winters. Listen, do you know where McCall is? No one’s seen him all day.”

“He’s - ” But Kira isn’t sure. She’d dropped Scott off at Deaton’s around 5, thinking she’d at least skip her dad’s class first period to get some sleep. Noshiko, however, had insisted her daughter be on time. Scott’s seat next to Kira had remained empty. The kitsune shakes her head.

Jack sighs. “Do you know if he’s coming to school today? He skipped the team vigil last night. He can’t - ”

“He was at the hospital,” Kira interrupts. “Stiles was in surgery.”

The warning bell trills, but Jack doesn’t go anywhere. “Right,” he says, shifting uncomfortably. “How’s - how’s Stiles doing, anyway?”

Kira shrugs. “Scott’s mom says he’s not out of the woods yet.”

“Yeah, I - ” Jack runs a nervous hand through his sandy hair. “I heard a couple of nurses talking about him yesterday. When I was visiting Josh DeWitt. It didn’t - it didn’t sound good. Did he - he lost his leg?”

“Yeah,” Kira confirms. The hallway is mostly empty now. There’s no way she’s going to make it to biology on time.

“Jesus,” Jack mutters. “Believe me, I get it. They’ve got Josh in traction. You know, so he can have spinal surgery. But McCall - he’s the captain. He’s still got to show up. He’s coming to the assembly, right?”

“What assembly?”

Jack blinks. “Seriously? It was on the morning announcements. No seventh period. They want to give everyone a chance to grieve together.”

“Oh,” says Kira stupidly. “I must have - ”

“No, I get it,” Jack interrupts coldly. “You were asleep. One of the guys said you were snoring in the back of your dad’s classroom all through second hour. I didn’t believe him. No way would the girlfriend of the lacrosse captain be that callous, not when _seven people_ died.”

“You’re not listening to me,” Kira says desperately, “I was at the hospital all night. _Scott_ was at the hospital all night. Stiles - ”

“Is his best friend, yeah. I get that,” says Jack. “My best friend’s in the hospital, too. But a lot of the other guys? They get to bury their best friends this week. So make sure McCall gets here for the assembly, OK?”

Kira is still standing in the hallway, stunned, when the bell rings. She takes her tardy slip without a word and slides into a seat in the empty back row. Usually she’d have Scott, Stiles and Danny to keep her company.

“Happy birthday to me,” she mumbles.

*           *           *

Parrish stares at his shoes, arms crossed, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet as he avoids eye contact with the students filing into the auditorium. He’d tried smiling sympathetically at one girl and been rewarded with a glare.

“Jesus,” Deputy Haines mutters, thumbs tucked in his gun belt. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”

“No,” says Parrish tersely, glancing up just in time to see the superintendent, Dr. Magee, make a beeline for him. He swallows hard. Magee had sat with Parrish on Thursday night as they informed six families their sons weren’t coming home. A seventh student had died at the hospital.

“Parrish,” Magee pants, grabbing the deputy by the elbow and dragging him aside. “Thanks for - I know you’re short-staffed right now.”

“No trouble at all,” Parrish says automatically. He’s almost a head taller than the superintendent, and he continues to scan the crowd for familiar faces. He’s spotted the Yukimura girl, but not Scott, and he wonders if Stiles’ best friend is even at school today. “Is there anything you need help with?”

“Just if you could sweep the parking lot during the assembly,” says Magee absently. “Make sure kids are where they’re supposed to be.”

Parrish nods. “Of course, sir.”

“How is he?” Magee blurts. “The sheriff’s son, the one - ”

 _Stiles_ , check. Parrish finally spies Scott, over with the rest of the lacrosse team. He looks out of place. He’s the only one not covered in bandages. “I haven’t heard much, to be honest.”

Magee exhales, runs a hand through his graying hair. “I was an idiot,” he tells Parrish. “I had - I didn’t even know Stilinski had a son, let alone that he played lacrosse for Beacon Hills.”

“Right,” says Parrish, shifting uncomfortably. He clears his throat. “I’m sure you know what I do, Superintendent.”

“I heard - ” Magee stops, shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter what I heard. Staff room gossip.”

A glance at the school orchestra - baton up, bows raised - tells Parrish the assembly is about to start. He jerks his thumb in the direction of the exit. “I’m going to check the parking lot,” he says, and he slips out just as the music begins.

It’s so bright outside Parrish has to lift a hand to shield his eyes. He blinks, waits for his eyes to adjust to the sunlight. He keeps his eyes peeled for truants as he walks toward the parking lot.

Parrish doesn’t realize he’s been bracing for it until he sees it, the beat-up Jeep in the back row, a little crooked where Stiles last parked it. It shouldn’t be a surprise that it’s still there, not with everything else going on, but it does startle Parrish to see it occupied. He takes a cautious step forward, knocks on the glass.

Lydia Martin lifts her head, face streaked with tears. She dabs at them with the back of her hand before cranking down the window.

“Hey Lydia,” Parrish says, crossing his arms as he leans against the car next to the Jeep.

“Deputy Parrish,” Lydia sniffles.

“Can I ask what you’re doing?”

The redhead holds up a key. “Stiles keeps one under the car, just in case.”

“Right,” Parrish says. He stares at his shoes, uses the heel of one to rub a scuff on the other, thinks about what _just in case_ might mean to a bunch of teenage werewolves. “Is there any change?”

“Not since last night, no.”

An uncomfortable silence stretches between them. Finally, Parrish blurts, “Are you OK?” Before she can answer, he shakes his head. “I’m sorry. That’s a stupid question. Of course you aren’t. How could you be? Nothing about this OK. What I’m trying to say is - can I help?”

Inside the Jeep, Lydia has picked up a crumpled brown napkin and is smoothing it between her fingers. There’s a logo for a local burger chain on it, and Parrish remembers seeing a stack of the same napkins sitting on the sheriff’s desk Wednesday night when Stiles dropped off dinner.

“No,” Lydia says at last.

Parrish steps forward, fishes a hankie from his pocket, hands it to her. “Here.”

“What’s this?” Lydia asks, suspicious, surveying the olive drab fabric like she’s not sure what to make of it.

Parrish can feel his cheeks burning. “It’s clean,” he promises. “Well, cleaner than that napkin, at any rate.”

“You don’t get a lot of men who carry hankies around here,” Lydia quips, but she uses it to dab at her eyes just the same.

“I’m not from around here,” Parrish points out.

“You don’t have to stay,” Lydia tells him. She holds up the hankie. “Do you - ”

Parrish waves his hand. “Keep it.” But he only gets a few feet away before he turns back toward Lydia. “Yeah, no, I can’t, I’m sorry.”

“You can’t what?” Lydia says sharply.

Parrish leans against the Jeep door. “Leave you when you’re upset,” he mutters, suddenly very interested in his shoes again.

Lydia scoffs. “Yes, you can. I’m a mess. No one needs to see me cry.”

“You’re not a mess,” Parrish insists. “You’re - ”

She’s beautiful. She’s also 17.

And still waiting for him to finish, evidently. “I’m what?”

“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?” Parrish asks.

“Yes,” says Lydia firmly.

Parrish nods. But when he tries to walk away, she grabs his wrist. Her hand is small, her nails are neatly manicured.

“I don’t know why I did that,” she confesses, letting go just as quickly as she’d latched on.

Parrish doesn’t move. “I’ll stay.”

Lydia’s voice is soft. “Please do.”

*           *           *

Having Peter in the building makes the hair on the back of Derek’s neck stand up. He presses his palms to the table, waits for his uncle to barge in.

Sure enough, Peter doesn’t knock. “I heard,” the older werewolf drawls, the loft door clanging shut behind him, “that _you_ need a favor.”

“I needed a favor two days ago,” Derek says.

“And I didn’t get your message until today,” says Peter. His heart rate’s steady, but that never meant much with Peter. His lips curl unpleasantly into a smile.

Derek doesn’t say anything, just presents the claw Deaton extracted from his stomach a few days earlier to Peter. It wipes the smirk right off his uncle’s face.

But not for long. “A berserker?” Peter says, letting the claw clatter to the table. “Really, Derek? The price of my help just went up.”

Derek shrugs. “Whatever you want, I’ll do it.”

Peter’s fingertips glance the table as he circles it, closing in on Derek. “And will it just be you and me? No Scott? Because I thought you had a new alpha now, nephew.”

Derek’s mouth is set in a thin line. He settles on, “Scott’s - busy.”

“Oh, _right_.” Peter is so close Derek can feel his uncle’s breath on his neck. He speaks slowly, punctuating each word. “Something - about - the - lacrosse - bus. Isn’t it _inconvenient_ when your alpha’s still in high school?”

“Scott’s got enough on his plate right now,” Derek says gruffly.

“I don’t get it,” Peter continues, “Scott can _heal_.”

Before he can stop himself, Derek bites out, “Stiles can’t.”

Peter chuckles. But his face goes slack when Derek involuntarily flashes his eyes. “Oh _my_ ,” the older werewolf says, “he’s really hurt, isn’t he?”

Derek is now clenching his fist so tightly he almost nicks his palm with a claw. “He’s - ”

Peter clucks his tongue. “It must be hard,” he says, pacing behind Derek, “to watch a human suffer like that, unable to do a thing about their pain - _oh_ _wait_.”

“Not everyone wants the bite,” says Derek, trying in vain to slow his rapidly increasing heart beat.

Suddenly Peter is in his face. “Well, this is an interesting development,” he hisses. “I doubted Scott had it in him to offer it to - ”

“Will you help me or not?”

Peter stares at his nephew for several long seconds. “Yes,” he says. There’s a beat. “On _one_ condition.”

*           *           *

Halfway through Danny’s memorial service, the hair on the back of Scott’s neck prickles, and he knows he’s not the only werewolf in the church. He sniffs the air once, twice, can’t identify who it is by scent alone. He starts to crane his neck, but he’s distracted by his phone vibrating.

Lydia’s hand latches onto Scott’s wrist before he can plunge his hand in his pocket. “Don’t,” she whispers.

“But Stiles - ”

That’s when he notices the single tear streaking the banshee’s perfectly made-up face, and he shuts up. He’s not just here as the lacrosse captain. Danny was a friend. And Scott’s been so preoccupied worrying about Stiles he hasn’t thought about what losing Danny means. He wraps an arm around Lydia as the school choir begins to sing. There’s a beat during which the banshee stiffens. Then she drops her head to his shoulder, and she cries.

_Turn off, turn off this song_

_Find someone to love_

_Turn off this song_

_You can listen to it later_

_And go outside_

The receiving line is long and snakes through the church, and of course Scott’s phone buzzes right as he’s shaking Mrs. Mahealani’s hand. “I’m _sorry_ ,” he pleads. “Stiles is in surgery.”

Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and Scott wonders if she remembers him having an asthma attack in the bounce house at Danny’s 10th birthday. Stiles had sat out the rest of the party with him, until Melissa could come pick them up.

Scott takes one last look at Danny’s casket on his way out of the church. It occurs to him it’s closed for a reason, and he grips Kira’s hand tighter as he checks his messages.

**MELISSA: Its taking a little longer than they thought, but he should be out soon.**

**MELISSA: The sheriff is going back to see him. Will let u know when I know more. But he made it thru!!1**

“McCall!”

Scott’s head snaps up at the sound of his name. He passes his phone to Kira so she can read the texts from his mom while Coach slow jogs over to them. Finstock’s arm is in a sling.

Scott shoves his hands in his pockets, braces for a lecture on leadership. “Hey, Coach.”

But instead, Finstock asks, “You doing OK, McCall?”

Scott blinks. “Just - you know, trying to be there for Stiles.”

“Christ,” Coach mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I can’t - I keep - how is Stilinski?”

Scott has to wonder if what Finstock’s really asking is how many more funerals he’ll have to attend. He shrugs. “You know, still in the ICU. He just got out of surgery, actually.”

Finstock shoves his good hand in his pocket. “I heard he lost his leg.” And, quickly, he adds, “I don’t know what’s real or rumors at this point.”

Lydia's still inside the church, still talking to Danny’s parents. Scott tries to tune out Mrs. Mahealani's sobs.

“Yeah, it - it had to be amputated,” Scott says, like it's a confession, scuffing his shoe on the ground.

“Should I do something?” Coach asks finally. “Should I visit?”

“He can’t have visitors,” says Scott.

Coach stares at him, covers his mouth with his hand. “Listen, McCall, I know the guys are angry. They want - I don’t know what they want, to be honest. I don’t think you organizing a memorial is going to make them feel any better about what happened. Just - take care of yourself, OK? Do what you can for Stilinski, and don’t worry about the rest.”

Scott nods. “Coach?”

“Yes, McCall?”

“You should take care of yourself, too,” Scott says sincerely.

Finstock nods, but the weary look on his face as he trots off says _one down, six to go_.

Kira presses Scott’s phone back in his hand. “Your mom says they want to operate again on Friday.”

“Jesus,” Scott mutters. Now Lydia has left the church and is walking toward them. He waits until she’s a little closer before saying, “Stiles is out of surgery.”

The banshee nods, hands in the pockets of her black overcoat. “I’m going to ride over to the cemetery with some of Danny’s orchestra friends for the graveside service.”

“OK,” Scott agrees, though he sort of wants to protest. He’s not sure why, but the hairs on the back of his neck are standing up again.

That’s when he hears it. “I’m sorry,” says a smooth, familiar voice. “My flight was delayed. But I got here as soon as I could.”

 _Jackson_.

*           *           *

“Jackson,” Lydia whispers when she sees him step out of his dad’s BMW in a fitted charcoal suit that hangs just right on his tall, lean frame.

It’s not that seeing him is a surprise - she’d known instinctively he would be here, no way he would miss his best friend’s funeral - but she’s not expecting her heart to start hammering in her chest as she takes a mental inventory of how Jackson’s changed in the last year. He’s bulked up. He’s wearing his hair a little longer.

Lydia hightails it in the other direction.

If all the time Lydia’s been spending in the hospital is bad enough, the cemetery is far, far worse. She walks gingerly, careful not to lose a black pump in the mud, trying in vain to ignore the voices in her head.

She runs straight into the caretaker. He grabs her by the shoulders, steadying her. “Miss, are you all right?”

Lydia blinks rapidly. “Yes, sorry.”

“You should head over,” he tells her in a lilting Irish accent, jerking his head in the direction of the plastic canopy at Danny’s gravesite. “The services for your friend will be starting soon.”

That’s when Lydia notices the young woman. The caretaker leads her past Lydia. “It’s up to you, really,” he’s saying, “I have plots open on either side of the cemetery.”

The young woman sniffs. “I think he might like it over here, near the trees,” she says, dabbing at her eyes with the tissue the caretaker hands her. “I’m sorry. This is just so unexpected. His doctor told me he was getting better. I was online researching rehabilitation facilities when the call came.”

Lydia frowns. Even the woman’s voice is familiar.

_“Now Dad, you need to listen to your nurse - ”_

Of course. She’d been on the elevator with her father the day Lydia visited Stiles in the white room. But hadn’t Lydia imagined that?

That’s when she hears her name. It’s a soft, otherworldly whisper. But it can’t be. It’s just not possible. Trembling, Lydia turns around. “Allison?”

Suddenly all of the whispers Lydia’s been ignoring increase in volume, until a hundred voices are all shouting at once. She squeezes her eyes shut, covers her ears.

“Lydia!”

Jackson’s grip on her arm is tight, too tight. Bruising. “Let go of me,” Lydia insists, wrenching her arm away and rubbing her wrist. She glares at him.

He shoves his hands in his suit pockets. “What are you doing over here?”

But Lydia doesn’t have to say anything because he notices the headstone, too.

_Allison C Argent_

_Jan 31, 1994_

_Nov 13, 2011_

“Oh,” says Jackson, and he must really be at a loss for words because he scuffs one insanely expensive shoe in the dirt.

“I haven’t - the last time I was here, her headstone wasn’t up yet,” says Lydia quietly.

“For what it’s worth - ”

“I’m sorry, too.”

Jackson stares at her. “How do you know what I was going to say?”

Lydia shrugs. “What else is there to say?”

She’s not expecting the derisive snort. “Oh, I don’t know,” says Jackson, “how about, ‘It’s not really a surprise?’ Or, ‘This is all McCall’s fault?’”

When Lydia closes her eyes, she can feel the nogitsune’s hot breath on her neck. “Scott was trying to save - ”

“Save himself?” Jackson interjects, and he pulls a flask from his jacket pocket. “Have you ever noticed how bad things never happen to McCall? Just to everyone around him?”

Lydia watches him take a long pull. She wonders what he’s drinking, if it’ll have any effect or if it’s just habit. “It isn’t like that,” she insists.

“No?” Jackson asks, and he takes a step forward that forces her to step back. “I got the call about Danny in the middle of the night. It didn’t - a bus crash? Didn’t even occur to me. All I thought was what the hell did Scott and Stiles do this time?”

“Stiles - ”

“It serves him _right_ ,” Jackson snarls, his eyes flashing blue. “It - ”

He doesn’t get to finish because he’s interrupted by a low growl. Ethan catches Jackson’s arm before he can take a swipe at Lydia.

Jackson’s nostrils flare. “Who the hell are you?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Ethan retorts. “Lydia, are you all right?”

Her wrist is sore from earlier, but the last thing the Mahealanis need at their son’s funeral is a pair of brawling werewolves. “I’m fine.”

But as soon as the words leave her mouth, the whispers resume and quickly overwhelm her. She needs to sit down, she needs to -

“Lydia!”

Her eyes snap open. (Had she closed them?) Ethan’s arms are around her, and he half-leads, half-carries her to a nearby bench. She watches Jackson the entire time. “What - happened?”

Ethan shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he tells her. “You almost fainted.”

“Freak,” Jackson mutters.

Ethan turns around and glares at him. “Leave,” he commands.

The other werewolf doesn’t need to be told twice. Jackson’s not subtle as he mutters, “This is why you got the hell out of here.”

“What are you doing, Ethan?” Lydia asks softly. “I thought you left town.”

“Not…exactly.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I tried to, but - ” Ethan shrugs. “Was that Jackson?” Lydia nods. “Yeah, I recognized him from the pictures in Danny’s room.”

There’s a long pause before Lydia says, “I’m sorry.”

“I wish I’d never come to Beacon Hills,” Ethan confesses, swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. Lydia starts to pull a pack of tissues from her purse, but he shakes his head. “I don’t - I’m not even sure what I’m doing here right now.”

“Same thing as the rest of us,” says Lydia as they rise to their feet. “Saying goodbye.”

Ethan offers her his arm. “I heard about Stiles,” he says. “Is there not anything Scott can do?”

“Stiles wouldn’t want that,” says Lydia quickly. But she frowns because of course Scott could have bitten Stiles. Why didn’t he?

Then she remembers Peter’s story, the one about Derek and Paige.

“No,” she says, this time with conviction, “Stiles wouldn’t want that.”

She’s expecting Ethan to scoff, so she’s surprised when he just pats the hand she has on his elbow. “I doubt Danny would have, either,” he says absently. “Not that it matters.”

Lydia frowns. “What do you mean?”

Ethan glances down at her. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“My first thought when I heard about the crash was why didn’t McCall bite them,” says Ethan. “Why not try to save them? All of them. But then Danny’s mom told me - he died instantly. At least, that's what the coroner told her. He didn't suffer.”

Lydia had screamed right as the accident occurred. “You should go, Ethan,” she says quietly as they join the other mourners. “There’s nothing here for you anymore.”

*           *           *

“Remind me again why I agreed to come along on this fool’s errand?” Peter calls, purposefully stepping on a fallen tree branch. The way it crunches underfoot, the sharp _crack_ reverberating through the still, silent trees, is immensely satisfying.

As is the over-the-shoulder glare he gets from Derek. “Come on,” his nephew grunts, face set in a scowl. “We’re almost to where it confronted me.”

Peter glances back at Malia. The werecoyote’s footfalls are light, quick, inaudible almost even to his superior ears. She takes another step forward into the light of the waxing moon. It’s not the first time he’s been struck by her classic beauty, her resemblance to Talia and his nieces. She’s a Hale, certainly.

If only he could figure out which girl in town Malia favors.

The werecoyote stops short. “What was that?” she hisses.

“What was - ” But then Peter hears it. Footsteps. The air is putrid, like rotting meat. “Derek, now would be the time to execute any plan - ”

Derek growls as he shifts, dropping to all fours to charge the berserker. Peter rolls his eyes, but he also shifts. He throws out an arm to keep Malia from diving into the fray. “Not yet,” he chides.

“I want to help,” the werecoyote snarls, writhing against her father’s chest. “I want to - ”

“I _said_ ,” Peter interrupts, “not yet.”

He doesn’t intend to fight the berserker. He never did. He’s here to watch Derek fail, to protect Malia, to gain his daughter’s trust. He watches the berserker lunge at Derek, ripping through leather and cotton and _flesh_ with ease. The blood of his kin perfumes the air. It’s intoxicating, it’s -

With a strangled cry, Malia breaks free of his grasp and takes a wild swing at the berserker. It doesn’t connect.

“Malia!” Peter cries, watching the bear-skinned warrior seize her by the collar and toss her like a rag doll. It had been one thing to let Derek charge recklessly into battle. But he can’t let his daughter do the same, not when she still has something he wants. He surges forward, picks her up off the ground. “Don’t - ”

Too late. Malia rushes back for more, sinking her teeth into the fleshy part of the berserker’s arm. Derek, who’d been knocked to his knees with an impressive gut wound, staggers to his feet and swings at the bone cage protecting the berserker’s chest. Peter is impressed - Derek actually manages to crack off a rib, which he brandishes like a weapon.

The berserker finally manages to shake Malia off. Wheezing as she hits the ground, she yells, “Well? Aren’t you going to help?”

Now _nothing_ is going to plan. Peter has no choice but to gnash his teeth. He swings, misses, sends the creature careening back at Derek. The younger werewolf is still holding the broken rib. “I think I’ll add it to my collection,” Derek taunts. “Display it alongside your claw.”

Peter’s eyes flicker down the berserker’s left arm. Of course. It’s injured, still healing, weak. It hasn’t had a chance to regenerate its hand. That’s why Derek had insisted they go tonight. It annoys Peter this might actually work.

The berserker sets off after Derek with a shrill cry, Malia on its heels. Peter has no choice but to follow his idiotic family deeper until the woods. Where Derek thinks he’s going is a mystery to Peter. He knows it’s been years since his nephew lived out here, but this part of the forest butts up against the ravine.

 _The ravine_.

That’s it. That’s the plan. Derek intends to fling the berserker into the gulch. Of course, the fall won’t kill it, but that doesn’t matter. Derek must think the fall will kill it. Why else would he be engaged in hand-to-hand combat with it so close to the cliff’s edge? The berserker wrests the cracked rib from Derek’s hand and drives it into the werewolf’s chest.

“Derek, no!”

Malia’s feet skid on the loose rock as she drags Derek away from the edge. She drops him, barely conscious, a few feet back, and she lunges at the berserker.

Peter grabs the back of her jacket just in time. The snarling, flailing warrior monster goes over the edge, and Malia collapses on top of Peter in a jumble of limbs. She scrambles to her feet. “Thanks,” she pants.

“Anytime,” says Peter sarcastically, though he suspects the sarcasm will be lost on Malia. He peers into the ravine, searching for the berserker’s dark form. It lies, unmoving, at the creek’s edge. He glances over at Derek, whom Malia’s easing into a sitting position. “You know it’ll heal, right?”

There’s blood trickling from the corner of Derek’s mouth. “Not if it drowns first,” he mutters, his eyes closing. He slumps against Malia.

Peter’s blood boils as he sniffs the air. Of course. Rain is on its way. In no time, the gulch will be full of swiftly moving water, carrying the berserker out to the reservoir. It irritates him to no end that he didn’t figure out Derek’s plan sooner.

Just for that, Peter hopes berserkers can swim.

*           *           *

Sunlight floods the loft, momentarily blinding Derek. He groans, gingerly running a hand down his bare chest. He thinks one of his ribs might still be broken.

“Are you - are you OK?” Malia’s voice startles him. She’s leaning against the wall of windows with her knees curled to her chest. She unfurls slowly, rising to her feet and taking a tentative step toward the couch. Her clothes smell musty, like they’d gotten wet and dried on her. She offers him a hand, helps him sit up.

“Yeah,” Derek says finally. “I will be. Did you stay all night?”

Malia nods, taking a seat next to him. “You didn’t look good.”

Derek shrugs. It burns from his breastbone all the way down to his navel, making him gasp. “I was healing.”

Malia doesn’t seem to notice his discomfort. “That’s what he said, too.”

“Who, Peter?”

“Yeah,” says Malia. After a pause, she adds, “He wasn’t very helpful.”

“No.”

“Do you think we killed the - the thing? The berserker?”

“Hard to say,” says Derek, squinting at the orange and blue light outside the window. “I hope so. Did it rain a lot last night?”

“We got caught out in it.”

“Then hopefully the creek washed the berserker down to the basin before it could heal,” says Derek. “I’ll go out there later, check - ”

“I can come, too,” Malia pipes in.

“No,” says Derek, his voice gentle but firm. “I suspect you’re in enough trouble as it is.”

“My dad, right.” Malia stares at her clasped hands. “I told him I was staying with a friend. Then my phone got wet and stopped working.”

“I’ll get you another,” Derek says automatically.

Malia looks a little embarrassed by his offer, but she nods. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” says Derek because it’s not. He clears his throat. “You should get - ”

“Going, yeah. And before you offer to drive me, Peter still has your car. Something about not wanting to walk home in the deluge,” says Malia.

Derek snorts. “Right. Sorry.”

“It’s fine. My dad would probably ask a lot of questions if some guy in his 20s dropped me off when I was supposed to be at Lydia’s.” She pauses. “You are in your 20s, right?”

Derek ignores the werecoyote’s query. “Listen, Malia, about Peter - ”

“He’s scuzzy, yeah,” she interrupts. “Scott and Stiles warned me.”

Derek decides it’s best to ignore how she flinches when she says Stiles’ name. “Peter wants something from you,” he continues. “That’s why he agreed to come out last night and hunt the berserker.”

“He wasn’t even that much help,” Malia grumbles.

“Malia, do you know what the Hale family is famous for among werewolves?” She shakes her head no. “The alphas can shift into actual wolves. My mom could do it, my sister with practice, even Peter when he killed - when he killed - ”

But Derek can’t say it, and Malia doesn’t make him. “Like when I turned into a coyote.”

“That’s the thing,” says Derek. “I’ve never heard of a beta mastering the full shift.”

“Considering I couldn’t turn back, I wouldn’t call it _mastering_ ,” Malia replies. “Besides, I can’t do it anymore.”

“But Peter doesn’t care about all that,” Derek points out. “All he sees is a beta who managed to pull off the full shift. He’s going to pump you for information.”

“I don’t have anything to tell him,” Malia insists. “Maybe it’s - maybe it’s because I’m a coyote, not a wolf. Maybe only werecoyotes can do it.”

“That’s not - ”

But on second thought, Derek doesn’t have time to explain to Malia why she takes the form of a coyote, not a wolf. Not when she has school in an hour and the ancient elevator is carrying an unwelcome visitor up to the loft.

He shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s it,” he tells Malia. “Leave your phone. Tell your father it’s missing. I’ll get you a replacement today.”

He’s not surprised to hear Malia in the hallway asking, “What are you doing here?”

“I need a word with Derek,” says Lydia, and she clicks her heels right through the open door.

Derek doesn’t turn around. “What do you want, Lydia?”

“Like I just said,” she says, stepping in front of him with her arms crossed, “I want a word.”

He can feel her eyes raking his chest for blemishes she won’t find. All the damage at this point is on the inside, and it keeps him from rising to grab a shirt. “OK.”

Lydia begins to pace. “Do you know what’s happening today? To Stiles, what they’re doing?”

Derek hasn’t been by the hospital in a few days, not since the night he'd bared his soul in the ICU. He'd been bleeding when Melissa made her rounds. She hadn't asked him to come back.

“Isn’t he supposed to have another surgery?”

“A skin graft,” says Lydia, “to close up his abdomen. Are you familiar - ”

“Yes, Lydia,” says Derek, gritting his teeth. “I know what a skin graft is.”

“Good,” the banshee says. “So you know what kind of day he’s in for. Flip him over, cut into his good leg, scrape away the skin - ”

Derek closes his eyes. “Stop it, Lydia,” he says quietly.

Suddenly the banshee is in his face. “I did that,” she hisses. “Somehow _I_ did this to him. You told me not to scream. So I didn’t. Now I can’t stop seeing him there.”

“Seeing him where?” Derek asks sharply, though he suspects he already knows the answer.

“The white room,” Lydia whispers.

“That’s - ” It’s not normal, but Derek’s not sure what else to say. “Have you been back? Since the afternoon of the second surgery, have you been back?”

“That day I saw a woman in the elevator with her father. He’d been sick. But they were going to release him. Except two days later I ran into his daughter at the cemetery. She was picking out a plot.”

Derek picks at a loose thread on his couch. “What’s your point, Lydia?”

“I think that man was supposed to live,” she continues. “Stiles wasn’t. We all knew that going into the surgery. That’s why I kept feeling a lump rise in my throat. But I kept choking it back. You told me not to scream. I didn’t scream. Stiles lived, and that man died.”

“Lydia,” says Derek, voice rough, “I’m sure it was a coincidence. People get sick, get better, take a turn for the worse. It happens _all the time_.”

“No,” the banshee insists. “Not this time. I - I traded that man’s life for Stiles.”

Finally, Derek can’t take it anymore. “So what if you did?” he snaps. “Stiles is pack. You should be grateful he’s not dead.”

“Why did you tell me not to scream?” Lydia demands.

“Because - ”

“ _Because you thought I could do something_.”

Derek’s nostrils flare. He ignores the throbbing pain in his chest, rises to his feet. It’s satisfying to be taller than Lydia again. “You’re a banshee, Lydia. You have powers I don’t understand.”

“You don’t understand?” she counters, clearly furious. “How dare -I think you know more than you’re letting on, Derek Hale.”

“I _told_ you,” says Derek, irritated, “I’ve been reading about banshees - ”

“Then you better hand me the book,” she interrupts coolly.

Derek blinks first. “Fine,” he spits, plucking a novel off the coffee table and tossing it aside. Beneath it is a volume bound in red leather. “Here. I’ve been trying to translate it, but it’s been slow going seeing as it appears to be written in some kind of primitive Irish and _I don’t speak Gaelic_.”

Lydia snatches it from him. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” she calls over her shoulder.

Derek clutches the stitch in his side, collapses back on the couch. He really has no idea.

*           *           *

Melissa’s gone home, the night nurse has already stopped by, and John can’t figure out who’s knocking at Stiles’ door so late. Dr. Alexander is about the last person he’s expecting. “Mind if I come in?” he asks.

John shakes his head. “Be my guest,” he murmurs, glancing at his watch. It’s almost midnight. “Shouldn’t - isn’t it your day off?”

Alexander snorts. “Get a lot of days off in your profession, Sheriff?”

“No.”

There’s a long pause as the doctor checks Stiles’ vitals. “I think he’s ready to start coming off the vent,” Alexander says finally.

John blinks, surprised. “He is?”

Alexander nods, pulling up a chair on the other side of Stiles’ bed. “It’ll take a few days. I’ll put in the order tomorrow. At first, the vent will still breathe for Stiles a set number of times per minute while encouraging him to take spontaneous breaths. If it goes well, we’ll wean him off the vent entirely over the next four or five days.”

“That’s safe?”

“I mean, it’s as safe as any of this,” the doctor says, eyes sweeping over his patient. “But yes, the machine will be there as a backup if Stiles doesn’t start breathing on his own.”

John picks up Stiles’ hand, squeezes it. “What next?”

Alexander touches Stiles’ residual limb through the thin hospital blanket. “I’m worried about his leg. It’s not healing the way it should. I’ll keep an eye on it now that we’ve got him closed up, but I might come to you in a few days for permission to amputate higher.”

“Oh,” says John, dropping his son’s hand. “Well, whatever you think is best.”

“That’s it? That’s all you got for me?”

“I don’t - I’m not sure what you want me to say,” the sheriff confesses, rubbing his mouth.

“How about, ‘Will he walk again?’” Alexander suggests.

John exhales slowly. “Christ,” he mutters. “But you think - ”

“Are you religious, Sheriff?”

The question catches John off guard. They’d gone every Sunday to St. Thomas More Parish Church before Claudia got sick. He’d made a half-hearted promise to keep taking Stiles that he’s pretty sure she knew he wouldn’t keep. “The last mass I went to was for my wife. Why?”

“Huh,” Alexander says. His hand’s still resting gently on Stiles’ thigh. “Because I can’t help but think someone’s been answering your prayers the past few days.”

John stares at all the tubes and wires snaking out the neck of Stiles’ hospital gown, not sure if he agrees. “Maybe.”

“You know he should have died, right?” Alexander continues. He shakes his head. “You watch so many kids die as a peds surgeon, you stop believing. Until a case like Stiles’ comes along.”

All the nurses - OK, mostly Melissa - talk about how Alexander thinks he’s hot stuff. “Shouldn’t you be taking credit, Doctor?”

Alexander gives Stiles’ leg a final pat and withdraws his hand. “I think you can be confident in your skills and also accepting of powers you might not understand.”

“Is that so,” John muses, taking his son’s hand again. He can’t decide if Stiles’ fingernails are getting long or if he’s just so used to seeing them bitten down. “I can’t picture it.”

“What?”

“Where I take him from here. What life looks like for us now.”

“It could look a lot like it did before,” says Alexander. He shrugs. “I don’t know anything about your son. You do.”

“You want to know something about Stiles?” Before the doctor can answer, John continues, “He’s terrible at lacrosse. He’s been riding the bench for three seasons. Still, he was on that bus.”

The law enforcement officer in John knows the look on Alexander’s face. It’s a curious man’s attempt to look casual. “How bad are we talking?”

“Oh, _monumentally_ bad,” says John without a moment’s hesitation. “He’s played 27 minutes in the past two years, mostly when his teammates were injured. Heck, earlier this season, _he_ injured one.”

“He’s what, a junior?” John nods. “Why’d he stick with it?”

“Eh, his buddy Scott’s on the team. Captain, actually,” the sheriff says, waving his hand. For a minute, _a minute_ , he’d been angry at Stiles’ best friend for getting his son on that bus. If it hadn’t been for Scott, no way Stiles would have stuck with lacrosse. But the moment the werewolf wrapped John in a too-tight hug, he’d forgiven Scott. “They do everything together.”

“So he’s loyal.”

“Or stubborn, depending on your point of view. I’ll be the first to admit my kid’s got a knack for pushing buttons. He certainly pushes mine often enough. But I can’t fault him. I haven’t really been there for him since his mom died. I’m always at work. He’s had to raise himself.”

“Are you telling me this because he’s going to be a pain in the ass when he wakes up?” the doctor wants to know.

John’s still not sure he believes Alexander when he says Stiles will eventually wake up. “I’m sorry,” the sheriff says reflexively.

“Don’t apologize,” Alexander says, pushing up on the arms of the chair. “I’m looking forward to it.”

*           *           *

Scott grips the steering wheel of his mom’s car with both hands, watching as his knuckles turn white. There’s an ad for a local carwash blaring too loud on the radio. He kills the engine.

He’s going to visit Stiles.

Scott plucks his mom’s ID from the cup holder. Stealing it had been a crime of opportunity - he hadn’t been planning to come to the hospital until his mom’s badge fell from the heap of scrubs he was stuffing into the washing machine. Scott runs through his plea to the sheriff to let him sit with Stiles one more time.

Except while Scott’s making his case to the steering wheel, a familiar scent hits his nose. He ducks as the sheriff walks by, gets in his cruiser and takes off. Scott frowns. If Melissa’s passed out at home and the sheriff’s leaving the hospital, who’s with Stiles?

 _Derek_.

Now that he’s scenting for him, Scott’s not sure how he missed the other werewolf. He slams the door of his mom’s car. Derek will probably be glad to see him, relieved to not be stuck all night at Stiles’ bedside.

Scott has to wait until the on-duty nurse gets called away from the desk to sneak through the secure doors. He hadn’t been able to smell Stiles from the parking lot, but now the alpha can just make out his friend’s scent under layers of antiseptic and sterile bandages. His stomach turns when he reaches Stiles’ room. He takes a deep breath.

The door flies open. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Derek grunts, wrestling Scott into the room but somehow managing to block the alpha’s view of Stiles. “You can’t be here. You’re going to get your mom in a lot of trouble if anyone sees - ”

But Derek’s no longer a match for the teenage werewolf he once tossed around easily. Scott throws off Derek’s arm.

He almost gets sick. Here, two feet from Stiles’ thin, pale form, he can smell much more than out in the hall. Sweat and blood and pus and feces, all wafting off his friend like some pile of garbage left out to rot. Not to mention how Stiles _looks_ , face swollen under the tape holding the blue breathing tube in place. The ventilator clicks and hisses.

“Why’s he - why’s he all puffy?” Scott whispers, horrified, taking a step back. He’s pretty sure he’s going to vomit if he stands any closer.

Derek has other ideas. He pins the alpha’s arms lightning fast and forces Scott even closer, so he close he could reach out and touch Stiles’ skin. It’s almost translucent, tissue-thin, like it could rip open at any moment.

“Get a good, long look,” Derek snarls. “That’s what you came for, isn’t it?”

Again, it doesn’t take much for Scott to escape the other werewolf’s grasp. “I think I’m going to be sick,” he manages, trying to breathe through his mouth. That’s no better. He almost gags.

Derek’s eyes flash blue. “You get used to it.”

“Why’s it smell like - ”

“Because he has an ostomy bag,” Derek snaps.

Scott blinks. “What’s - ”

“The doctor had to cut a hole in his abdomen because his intestines were mangled.”

“Oh.” There’s another smell, sweet, that Scott recognizes from sick animals at the clinic. He swallows hard. “He has an infection.”

“Yeah,” Derek says tersely. “That’s why he’s so swollen. His leg’s not healing, either.”

Finally, Scott thinks he can take a step closer. He’d been so overwhelmed by the smell, he hadn’t noticed it before, the way the sheet drops off before Stiles’ left knee. Before he can talk himself out of it, he picks Stiles’ limp hand up off the bed. The spike of pain is so bad Scott almost cries out. He pants, “Shouldn’t - can’t they give him something - ”

“He’s on morphine, dumbass. You’re not.”

“So he can’t feel it?” Scott asks, wrapping a second hand around Stiles’ hand and trying to hold on.

Derek glares at the alpha. “If you can’t tell, I haven’t been able to ask,” he says through gritted teeth.

Scott’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “Why are you even here?”

“Because his dad and your mom needed a break.”

“And they called _you_?”

Derek’s eyes flash blue. “Yes.” He walks around Stiles’ bedside, takes the teen’s other hand. “Go home, Scott. Stiles doesn’t need you to see him like this.”

Scott doesn’t let go of Stiles’ hand. The pain’s starting to level off. He’s getting used to it. “No,” he says defiantly. “If anyone should go, it should be you. You and Stiles aren’t even _friends_. If anyone shouldn’t see him like this, it’s - ”

The wave of nausea that rises up suddenly, powerfully, has Scott stumbling through the open door he really hopes is the bathroom. He doesn’t have time to kneel. He retches, still standing, into the toilet.

Derek flicks the lights. “Are you done?” he asks, irritated.

Turns out, Scott isn’t. He bends over a second time, vomits until only bile comes up. “How’s he - how’s he ever going to come back from this?” Scott manages weakly, patting at his chin with a wad of toilet paper. “How’s he ever going to keep up with - ”

“He’s not,” Derek says flatly. “Stiles’ days running with the pack are over, Scott.”

*           *           *

“John? John? Sheriff, are you even listening?”

John blinks. He’s sitting across from Melissa in a booth at the cafe around the corner from the hospital, table scattered with medical paperwork. He picks up a brochure. On it, a man older than him beams as he bends his prosthetic knee. John puts it down.

“I’m sorry,” he says miserably. “I’m not good at this.”

Melissa, who’s given up her lunch breaks, days off, _whole life_ to help him navigate this mess, tidies the stacks of paper. “Sheriff, I want you to have an opportunity to ask questions before Stiles’ surgery tomorrow.”

“I don’t - I already consented, Melissa."

Her hands stop moving. “I know.”

“Then why - ”

“John, Stiles needs the surgery,” Melissa interjects. “His residual limb isn’t healing. The doctor is right to amputate higher. I didn’t ask you to grab coffee to convince you otherwise.”

“Oh.”

“You asked me the other day if Stiles could lead a normal life,” Melissa continues, smoothing a copy of _Understanding the Above Knee Amputation_. “I don’t want to pretend this doesn’t complicate things. Higher amputations are notoriously - ”

“Melissa,” John interrupts, “it’s fine.”

She stares at him. “John, I’m trying to tell you Stiles could lose his whole leg. All of it. Anything they could attach a prosthesis to. That’s fine?”

The sheriff rubs his mouth. “Is there another option?”

“Dr. Alexander will try to preserve as much of the limb as he can, but if the infection’s spread, then no. There’s not another option.”

“Then isn’t all this a moot point?”

Melissa’s hand closes around his. “No. Because limb loss is a complex, emotional trauma. I’m trying to prepare you for when Stiles wakes up without his leg. He’s going to need your help to navigate his new life.”

John jerks his hand away, rakes it through his hair. It’s thinner, he suspects. Greyer. “I can’t.”

“You _can_ , and you will.”

“No, Melissa, you don’t understand,” he says desperately. “This wasn’t supposed to be me. I can’t do this. His mom - his mom - ”

Claudia could have handled this. She’d be devastated, of course. It would kill her to see Stiles in so much pain, practically wasting away in the ICU. But she would rise to the occasion. She would hold their son’s hand, stroke his hair, tell him how much they loved him. And then she’d meet with the hospital prosthetist and make sure they stayed strong for their boy.

“ - I miss her,” John finishes lamely, sure his eyes are rimmed in red.

Melissa softens. “John, I can’t imagine how daunting this must be. But you can do this. I know you can. It’ll be hard, almost impossible, but you’ll figure it out because you love Stiles.”

Finally, John nods. He motions for her to hand him the pamphlet. “What were you saying?”

But Melissa doesn’t move. “You should - Stiles will have to meet with the hospital counselor. It’ll be part of his recovery plan once he’s out of the ICU.”

“OK.”

“You should talk to her, too, Sheriff,” Melissa says quietly.

John stands, pulls out his wallet, throws down a few bucks. “I’ll see you around, Melissa.”

He leaves. She doesn’t try to stop him.

*           *           *

“Here, let me help,” Scott offers, rising from the table after dinner with the Yukimuras (lasagna this time, no chopsticks required). He stacks their plates, cups and silverware, earning a smile from Noshiko as he carries it all back to the kitchen and begins loading the dishwasher.

“Well, I think that went well,” Ken declares back in the dining room.

Immediately, a mortified Kira hisses, “He can _hear_ you, Dad.”

But Scott doesn’t hear Noshiko, sliding out of her chair and padding into the kitchen. “Here,” she says, holding out a water glass and startling the werewolf, “you missed one.”

“Oh,” says Scott, heart still hammering as he takes the glass from her. He expects the kitsune to rejoin her daughter and husband in the living room. Instead, Noshiko leans against the sink, arms crossed.

“Kira tells us Stiles continues to improve,” she says, not unkindly.

“Uh, yeah,” says Scott. “Mom says they’ll probably start weaning him off sedation soon.”

“That must be a relief to you,” Noshiko continues, “to know Stiles will recover without the bite.”

Scott fumbles the dinner plate he’s holding. He manages to catch it half a second before it hits the floor and shatters into a million tiny pieces. “H-how did you know he didn’t want it?” he stammers. To his knowledge, only his mom and Derek know he was willing to bite Stiles.

There's a little half-smile on Noshiko's face. “You could not have done that if you were not an alpha,” she says, nodding at the plate in Scott’s hands. “And of course Stiles did not want the bite. I doubt he was ready to give up control again so soon after the nogitsune.”

“I hadn’t - I didn’t think of that,” Scott admits.

“Hmm,” Noshiko murmurs. “Well, I am glad Stiles is healing.”

She turns, and Scott blurts, “It’s not a relief.”

Noshiko’s back is to him. “What isn’t?”

There isn’t anything else for Scott to put in the dishwasher. “You said it must be a relief. To know Stiles is recovering, even without the bite. But it’s not a relief. It’s - every day Mom tells me, ‘His kidney output’s improving.’ Or, ‘Oh, Stiles’ skin graft is starting to heal.’ It’s not a relief. It’s a nightmare. He hasn’t woken up yet. He doesn’t know about his leg.”

“ _Tsuno o tamete ushi o korosu_ ,” Noshiko says, turning back around.

Scott blinks. Kira had given him a copy of Rosetta Stone so he could impress her parents with a few Japanese words, but he hadn’t gotten around to asking Stiles to install it before the bus crash. Scott shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t - ”

“It is a Japanese proverb,” says Noshiko, taking a step forward. “In English, you could say that the remedy is worse than the disease.”

“Stiles wouldn’t still be in the hospital if I bit him,” Scott counters. “He wouldn’t have - ”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Scott.” Noshiko lays a surprisingly gentle hand on his shoulder. “When you have lived as long as I have, you are careful to make your choices, as you know they have long-lasting effects.”

Scott still isn’t sure what his girlfriend’s 900-year-old kitsune mother is getting at. “But Stiles is 17,” he points out.

“Humans make choices, too,” says Noshiko. “Sometimes without realizing it. They can be just as lasting. But the trick to living a life of any length well is accepting those choices and moving forward.”

“Are you trying to tell me Stiles is supposed to stay human? That he knew that somehow?”

Noshiko is already on her way back to the dining room. “I rarely take the long odds,” she calls over her shoulder, “but on your friend Stiles, I would.”

Scott’s still trying to figure out what she meant when Ken appears in the doorway. The alpha opens his mouth, wants to ask for a translation of everything Noshiko just said. But the words don’t come out.

“How about dessert?” Ken asks, striding over to the fridge.

Scott forces a smile. “That sounds great, sir.”

*           *           *

It’s 3:30 a.m., and Melissa’s half-asleep herself when she notices Stiles’ arm twitch. Blinking, she slides out of the chair and grasps the teen’s hand before he can grab his stump. “Stiles, listen to me,” she says soothingly, rubbing a circle on his palm with her thumb. “You’re in the hospital.”

He’s been in and out of consciousness all day, eyes flickering open for a minute, two minutes, just long enough to get the sheriff’s hopes up before Stiles would grope at his missing leg and panic. Tonight’s no exception. Melissa watches Stiles’ heart rate spike on the monitor.

“Stiles - ”

“Hurt,” Stiles pants. “It - ”

Melissa hits the call button, grabbing Stiles’ other hand before he can yank on his central line. “Shh, shh,” she murmurs, her grip on both his hands tight. “I know it hurts, sweetie. I’m sorry.”

Now Stiles’ heart is beating so fast it triggers the alarm. He squeezes his eyes closed, tears rolling down his cheeks as Melissa tries in vain to calm him.

It only takes the night nurse, Matt, a few seconds to read the situation. He arches an eyebrow. Melissa nods. Matt flips off the shrill bedside alarm and unlocks the medicine cabinet as Stiles continues to whimper and cry. “Hang on, Stiles. I promise we’ll get you comfortable again.”

And he unloads a bolus of propofol into Stiles’ IV line. In no time the teen’s eyes are closed, his hands slack in Melissa’s. She sighs as she tucks them back under the hospital blanket.

Once Stiles’ heart rate is back to normal, Matt asks, “Rough day?”

Melissa rubs at the knot in her shoulder. “You could say that.”

“How many times has he done that?”

Melissa’s lost count, so she shrugs. “I’m running out of things to say to the sheriff,” she says. “I was hoping we wouldn’t have to sedate him again.”

“You offered to stay overnight for Stilinski?”

Stiles’ tears are drying on his cheeks. Melissa grabs a little vial of Vaseline and a cotton swab from the bedside table, dabs a little on Stiles’ lips. “Whatever you’ve heard - ”

“Relax, Melissa,” says Matt. “I’m not asking about you and the sheriff. I’m trying to remind you to take care of yourself.”

She knows her cheeks must be red. “Oh,” she manages.

“I’ve got to check on a few other patients, but I’ll come back in a little bit, make sure he stays under, OK?”

Melissa nods, pulls her feet up under her in the chair as the door clicks shut behind Matt. She grabs her phone. _New message._

**SHERIFF: Is he still waking up? I can come back**

**MELISSA: Hes resting comfortably**

**MELISSA: Get some sleep**

*           *           *

The smell of disinfectant burns Stiles’ nostrils, clings to the back of his throat, chokes him. He comes to coughing. He needs water, he needs to open his eyes -

Bad idea.

The too-bright overhead lights leave him temporarily blinded. Eyes watering, Stiles begins to blink rapidly, trying to clear the glare from his peripheral vision. When he can see again, he’s not sure where he is. The walls are white, but it’s not the white room.

Stiles’ heart sinks, remembering the red-raw stump where his left leg had been. Immediately, he begins groping at his thigh.

“Stop that,” his dad admonishes. Now Stiles notices the sheriff pacing at the foot of his bed, phone tucked between his ear and his shoulder. “Parrish, I have to go. Stiles is up.”

Stiles swallows hard. “Dad?” he asks, except it doesn’t sound so much like a word as a moan. His lips are chapped, too. They feel like they’re about to crack.

“Hey, hey,” says John, smoothing Stiles’ hair with one hand and grasping his son’s wandering hand with the other. “Stiles, listen to me. You’re in the hospital. There was an accident. Do you remember the accident?”

Stiles doesn’t. He remembers being at the loft. He remembers being worried about Malia. Did they go after the berserker?

 _Berserker_. He’s not even sure how he knows that word.

“Stiles,” his dad says again, “do you remember the accident?”

He’d been in a bad mood when he and Scott got in the Jeep. Stiles knows he drives too fast when he’s mad. “Was it my fault?” he rasps.

John’s grip on Stiles’ hand loosens. “No,” the sheriff says at once. He looks sad, Stiles thinks. He takes advantage of his dad’s momentary distraction and tries to touch his leg again. John notices just as Stiles’ fingers make contact with gauze. “Stiles, you have to stop that. You’re going to tear out your stitches.”

That’s when Stiles realizes his leg isn’t there anymore. He blinks once, twice, three times.

Stiles croaks, “Water?”

“Yeah, let me - ” John frowns. “Let me call the nurse, kiddo. I don’t know if you can have any.”

Stiles nods, feels his dad stroke his hair, closes his eyes. When he opens them again, there’s a tall man in blue scrubs next to the sheriff. He smiles warmly down at Stiles. “Hey, Stiles,” he says, like they’re old friends. “How are you feeling?”

There’s an unpleasant tug at Stiles’ collarbone. “There was an accident,” he mumbles.

“I don’t know if he’s - ”

“He’s here, Sheriff,” the nurse interrupts. “Aren’t you, Stiles?”

Stiles is so, so parched. Instead of answering, he squeezes his dad’s hand. _Ask about water_.

John doesn’t. “Are you in pain, kiddo?”

There’s a dull ache at the base of Stiles’ spine. He coughs. “Yeah,” he manages. “Yes.”

For a minute, Stiles feels frozen, like his heart’s pumping icy blood. Then he’s floating. He’s -

*           *           *

“Do you want to watch baseball?”

“No.”

“Do you want to watch - ” John squints at the cable box “ - Psych?”

“No.”

“What about the news?”

“No.”

“Is there anything you _do_ want to watch, Stiles?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to turn the TV off?”

“No.”

John finally gives in, twists around to face his son. Stiles is trying to slide his hospital bracelet off again. His wrist's so thin these days John thinks his kid might just succeed. “Hey,” the sheriff says, gently grabbing Stiles’ hand. “Stop that.”

Stiles nods. “Yeah, OK,” he mumbles. He sounds tired. Defeated. He drops his hand to the mattress. “We can watch baseball.”

John taps Stiles’ bed with a fist. “The Giants are going to be good this year,” he says, aiming the remote at the TV. “Do you want to sit up? It might be a little easier for you to see.” When a full minute passes, he twists around in the chair again. Stiles is crying. “Hey, hey, we don’t - ”

“It’s fine,” Stiles insists, swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “It’s - ”

The sheriff shuts off the TV, turning his chair to face Stiles. “What is it, son?”

“I can’t sit up.”

John frowns. “Of course you can. Where’s the control for the bed? I just saw it - ”

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut. “No, Dad. That’s not what I meant. I can’t - I can tilt the bed up, sure. But you need a knee for balance to do it on your own.”

“Stiles,” says John, smoothing his son’s hair, “this is - you’ve been through a lot, kiddo. You’re just not very strong at the moment. But you’ll be able to sit up on your own again. I’m sure of it.”

“Walk me through it,” Stiles says softly, opening his eyes. “I was in surgery, and Melissa came out to get your permission - ”

“We’ve been over this, Stiles,” John interjects, swallowing the lump rising in his throat. “I know Dr. Alexander didn’t take the decision to amputate your leg lightly.”

Finally, Stiles nods. “Dad?”

“What is it, son?”

“This surgery on Friday - do you think I should be scared?”

John’s scared. John’s terrified. But he can’t let on to Stiles. He adjusts the draping on Stiles’ hospital gown so it isn’t pulling on his central line. “I think you’ll be in good hands.”

Stiles’ eyes close again. “And after the surgery, they’ll move me to the recovery floor, right?”

“Not right away, but yes,” says John, smoothing Stiles’ blankets unnecessarily. He knows his son’s about to drift off. “Once you’re out of the ICU, your friends will be able to visit.”

“Good,” Stiles mumbles. “I miss Scott.”

“I know you do,” says John, listening as his son’s breathing evens out. The sheriff closes his eyes. “And I miss you, kid.”

*           *           *

Parrish knows the paperwork is starting to pile up on his desk, so he goes in early Friday to tackle it before his patrol shift. He nods to Arroyo and Barrett, who’d worked the overnight, yawning as he fixes a pot of coffee. He’s sliding into his chair with a steaming mug when he notices the light’s on in the sheriff’s office. Parrish frowns.

“Sheriff?” he asks, rapping lightly on the door. No answer. He tries the doorknob, is surprised when it opens.

He’s even more surprised to see the sheriff passed out on the couch. Parrish steps forward, tentatively shakes John’s shoulder. “Sir?”

The sheriff’s eyes fly open. For a second, he looks utterly bewildered, but then he focuses on his deputy and says, “Crap. What time is it?”

“It’s a quarter past six, Sheriff,” says Parrish. “Is - are you all right?”

“Fine,” John insists, straightening. But he moves too quickly, groaning and clutching his back. He swears.

Parrish reaches for the sheriff’s shoulder. “Sir - ”

“I said, _I’m fine_ ,” John snaps, pushing the deputy’s arm back. Then he sighs. “I’m sorry, I just - I hate this. I hoped to God I’d never have to spend another night in an uncomfortable chair at Beacon Hills Memorial. Sometimes I’ll wake up at Stiles’ bedside and forget why I’m there. I turn my head and expect to see - ”

Parrish leans against the sheriff’s desk, crosses his arms, stares at his feet. He’d been there for two months before he’d worked up the courage to ask another deputy what happened to the sheriff’s late wife.

“How’s he doing?”

John nods once, twice, three times. “Scheduled for surgery this afternoon,” the sheriff says, rubbing his chin, covered in a week’s worth of stubble. His eyes sweep the room, across his desk piled high with casefiles, out to the mostly empty squad room. Parrish isn’t sure his boss focuses on any of it.

“Oh,” says Parrish. “Any idea when - ”

“No,” the sheriff says wearily. “Not for another month, at least.”

“You should go home, sir. Get some sleep.” _In an actual bed._

John smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I should get back to the hospital,” he says, rising with a wince.

“Sheriff?”

John pauses, hand on the doorknob. “Yes, Parrish?”

Parrish stares at his hands, flicks one thumbnail against the other. “I can’t imagine how hard this is for you,” he says quietly, “but I believe Stiles is lucky to have you as a father.”

And then he freezes. Because _lucky_ is the wrong word to describe a kid who just lost his leg.

Fortunately, John snorts. “I wish, Parrish.”

He leaves Parrish alone in the office, a photo of Stiles beaming at the deputy from his dad’s desk.

*           *           *

When Nancy, the on-duty nurse, asks for a quick word a few hours into Stiles’ surgery Friday afternoon, Melissa doesn’t think anything of it. She pats the sheriff’s arm - he’s checking e-mail on his phone - and follows the other nurse back to reception.

She’s not expecting Nancy to drop her voice when they’re out of earshot and say, “Dr. Alexander is asking for you.”

“Dr. Alexander - ”

But before she can tell Nancy no, the peds surgeon should be elbow-deep in Stiles right now, she sees him hunched over the desk. He’s still in his scrubs, hands clenched in tight fists near his temple.

“No,” Melissa says, a lump rising in her throat. “No, no, no - ”

Before she can ask, before she can construct that horrible question, Alexander grabs her arm and marches her down an empty hallway. He rubs his mouth. “His abdominal aorta blew. I got a stint in, but - ”

Melissa exhales in one shuddering, rasping breath. “You have to _stop_ making me think you’ve lost him,” she chides.

Alexander crosses his arms, widens his stance. “His heart stopped.”

“For how long?”

The doctor lifts his shoulders, lets them fall. That’s when Melissa notices there’s still blood on his sleeve. “Long enough,” he says quietly.

Melissa swallows hard. “OK,” she says. “OK.”

“I don’t know what to tell the sheriff,” Alexander admits. “We’ll have to run tests.”

“What else?”

The doctor won’t meet her eyes. “Stiles’ lung collapsed,” he mutters. “He’s back on the vent.”

“How long do you need?” Melissa wants to know.

Alexander’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“For the EEG. That’s what you’re asking, isn’t it? You want me to buy you time while you run tests. Lie to Stiles’ dad.”

“That’s not what - two hours. I need at least two hours.”

Melissa nods. “OK.”

“What are you - what will you say to him?”

Melissa wants to scream. She wants to throw something. She _hates_ Alexander for putting her in this position. “That one of my other patients needed me,” she says, gritting her teeth.

“Two hours,” Alexander promises.

She goes to the bathroom, splashes her face with cold water. John’s still on his phone when she returns to the waiting room. He glances up. “Everything OK?” he asks.

The sheriff doesn’t sound worried, or panicked, or scared. It occurs to Melissa he didn’t think Nancy’s aside was about Stiles in the first place. “Yep,” she lies.

“Any word on Stiles?” John wants to know, tucking his phone in his shirt pocket.

“Nothing yet,” Melissa says, forcing a smile. If Alexander’s suspicions are correct, if Stiles suffered brain damage due to oxygen deprivation -

John’s staring at her. “Are you sure everything’s OK?”

“Just tired,” she says quickly.

The sheriff nods. “If I haven’t said it lately, thank you. I don’t - I’m not sure what I would have done without you.”

Melissa’s stomach knots with dread.

*           *           *

“But you said he was getting better,” Scott insists, raking a hand through his hair and refusing to believe what his mom’s telling him. “You said they were going to move Stiles to the - ”

“Scott, I know,” Melissa interrupts, her voice strained. “I know.”

Scott’s heart is hammering in his chest. “So what are you telling me? He’s back on the vent. Is he going to - ”

“No,” says Melissa quickly. Too quickly. “He’s - ”

“Don’t lie to me,” Scott growls. “Stop lying to me.”

Melissa exhales. “I don’t know,” she admits. “I don’t know, Scott, because the doctor doesn’t know. I didn’t lie to you when I said Stiles was getting better. He was. Had the surgery been successful, he would have been moved out of the ICU next week.”

“And now?”

Melissa shakes her head. “Go home, Scott,” she says quietly. “I’ll call you if he takes a turn for the worse.”

But Scott doesn’t go home. He thinks about calling Kira - actually brushes her name with his thumb, has to hit cancel - and ends up at Deaton’s. He’s surprised to see the lights still on. He watches the veterinarian move around inside and considers turning around. No need to ruin Deaton’s night, too.

That’s when he hears Deaton say, “Come in, Scott.”

The veterinarian makes a fresh pot of coffee while Scott haltingly explains how Stiles’ surgery went south. “He was getting better,” Scott finishes lamely. Defeated, he takes a drink from the mug Deaton offers him even though he doesn’t like coffee. He chokes.

“Too hot?” Deaton asks, grimacing.

Scott shakes his head. He’d burnt his tongue and the back of his throat, sure, but his mouth healed instantly. “I don’t know how to do this,” he tells Deaton. “How can I just stand back and watch Stiles suffer when I could fix all of this with the bite?”

Deaton blows into his own mug, the coffee rippling like a dark, stormy sea. “You have a scar on your cheek,” he says without looking up.

“What’s that - oh,” says Scott, fingers flying to his face. “Uh, Stiles and I were playing lacrosse in the house, and I sort of crash-landed on the coffee table.”

“And you kept that scar, even after you got the bite,” Deaton continues, taking a cautious sip.

Scott shrugs. “So Stiles’ leg doesn’t grow back. He’d still be strong. He’d still be - ”

“Scott.”

“I know,” says Scott automatically, hastily wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “Sometimes the bite doesn’t take. Stiles turned it down. But why? Is there - am I missing something? Why does he have to stay human?”

Deaton takes another sip. “Humans often play important roles in packs.”

“Is Stiles supposed to become my emissary?” Scott blurts.

At this the veterinarian smiles wryly. “I thought I was your emissary, Scott.”

The alpha blinks. “You are?”

Deaton slowly sets his mug on the exam table and crosses his arms. “No, not officially. But I think it’s probably time we make the arrangement formal. If that’s what you want, of course.”

“That’s - ” Scott shakes his head “ - of course I want that. But why would you? You told Derek you wouldn’t be his emissary.”

The veterinarian releases a little puff of air, a little laugh. “You’re not Derek, Scott. You’re a very different kind of alpha.”

“A true alpha.”

“I would be remiss not to tell you I wouldn’t be getting back in the business for just anyone,” Deaton replies.

Scott frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, instinctively turning his head to see what Stiles thinks before remembering his right-hand man isn’t there.

Deaton unfolds his arms, skims a hand along the metal exam table. “Few druids ever become emissaries, Scott. Even fewer do it twice.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s unbelievably painful to lose an alpha,” says Deaton. “I hate to bring it up, but I’m sure you’ve heard Derek say that losing a member of your pack - ”

“ - is like losing a limb, ” Scott finishes, swallowing hard. “Yeah, I have.”

“Losing an alpha is more like losing your heart,” the veterinarian continues. “Emissaries don’t always survive what kills the pack leader. The ones who do say it rips the soul in two.”

“But you’ve lost two already. How can you - I couldn’t ask - ”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering.”

There’s a part of Scott that still wants to ask Stiles for his opinion. There’s also the realization that Scott might not get to. “OK,” he finds himself saying. “What do we do? To make it official.”

“We don’t have to - ”

“I don’t need to think about it,” Scott interrupts. “Just tell me what to do.”

To Scott’s surprise, Deaton turns. “I think you already know what to do,” he calls over his shoulder, and he lowers his neck.

It takes Scott a second. Then he notices the scars from Talia’s and Laura’s claws and flicks his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Thanks so much, everyone, for all the love you left on chapter one! I'll be responding to your feedback individually in the coming days, as I so appreciate the encouragement. 
> 
> (And special thanks to [frommybookbook](http://archiveofourown.org/users/frommybookbook), who fields 100 emails a day about werewolves - and responds to all of them.)
> 
> For those of you that have asked about a posting schedule, I'm writing as fast as I can. I also have large chunks of future chapters already written. The average chapter length for this fic will be between 15,000 and 20,000 words. That much copy takes time to write, edit and produce.
> 
> So, while Tumblr is a brand new land for me, my plan is to eventually post updates and snippets there between chapters. I'll share more details when I post chapter three. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles’ hand is curled into a tight fist next to him on the mattress. Derek picks it up, forces the teen to unfurl his fingers. “The crash wasn’t your fault, Stiles. You were just - ”
> 
> But Stiles clearly doesn’t want to hear he was at the wrong place at the wrong time. “I’m going to call for more meds,” he tells Derek, forcefully removing his hand from the werewolf’s grip. “I think you should go.”
> 
> “Stiles - ”
> 
> Stiles slaps the call button with a loud smack. “Get out of here, Derek.”

“Listen, Scott,” Lydia says, interrupting the alpha mid-sentence as she throws the Prius into park, “I really have to go.”

There’s a pause during which Lydia is pretty sure Scott nods, then realizes she can’t see that on the phone. “Uh, I’ll let you know if anything changes.”

Nothing’s changed, not in two days. That’s the problem. Stiles is still on the ventilator, sort of lucid but showing no signs improvement. Every hour, every minute, the urge to scream grows stronger. That’s why Lydia is here, desperately clutching a bouquet of irises.

“OK,” the banshee mutters, giving the car door a slam to steel herself, “focus on Allison.”

She’s prepared this time for the whispers as she pushes open the cemetery gate. She closes her eyes and tries to pick out her best friend’s voice from the din.

When she opens them again, Lydia is standing in front of Allison’s grave. She lowers herself on her haunches and carefully arranges the flowers.

Nothing happens.

_Well, what were you expecting, Lydia?_ She shakes her head. Going to the cemetery to talk to a dead person. Not exactly the most solid of plans. Gingerly, she reaches forward, rubs at a streak of dirt on the headstone.

“I was wondering when you’d be back.”

Startled, the banshee tips forward. She throws out a hand to brace herself, palm covering the G-E-N-T on Allison’s headstone.

_Scream, Lydia ..._

A hand closes on Lydia’s shoulder. “Easy there,” the old Irish caretaker says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Lydia throws his hand off, pushing down on her knees and rising to her feet. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people,” she admonishes.

“And you shouldn’t sneak in after hours,” he replies evenly, and he points a gnarled finger at the cemetery gates.

“It wasn’t locked.”

The caretaker leans on his spade. “Usually your kind avoids cemeteries.”

“My kind?” Lydia repeats. “And what _kind_ would that be?”

His breath is hot on her ear. “The wailing woman,” he says, lips curling into a smile that shows every one of his ground-down teeth.

“What - ”

But the caretaker is already walking away, his step surprisingly springy for a man of his age.

Lydia doesn’t think. She just takes off after him, but her heel gets stuck in the mud, hampering her pursuit. She watches in frustration as the caretaker disappears into a ramshackle shed on the edge of the grounds.

No way she’s following him.

Then the door opens. “Well?” the caretaker calls. “Aren’t you coming?”

_This is it, Lydia. This is how you die._ But she takes a deep breath and follows him in just the same.

Inside, the shed’s not as scary. It’s also bigger than Lydia thought. There are mud-caked tools in the front, a makeshift office wedged in the back. “Tea?” he asks. Lydia shakes her head. He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

He hums as he fills a dented kettle with water and fires up the hot plate on his desk. “How did you - ”

“Know you were a banshee?” he interjects. He chuckles. It’s a harsh, unpleasant noise. “Let’s just say I know a thing or two about banshees.”

“I don’t,” Lydia says flatly.

“Of course you don’t,” the caretaker replies. “You’re young. Your powers have only just begun to manifest.”

Lydia thinks of the leather-bound book in her bag. For a half-second, she considers showing it to the caretaker, but he’s given her no reason to trust him. “So I _can_ control it,” she surmises.

“In time.”

“How?”

The caretaker’s bulbous eyes twinkle. “I think you’ve already worked that out.”

The back of Lydia’s throat tingles. “My friend is dying,” she confesses, swallowing hard. “He’s in so much pain. I’ve wanted to scream for days.”

“So scream,” the caretaker says with a shrug. “Put him out of his misery.”

Lydia shakes her head. “I can’t do that,” she says, trying to imagine how she’d ever explain it to Scott. “Our other friends would never forgive me.”

There it is again, the unpleasant, tight-lipped smile. The caretaker licks his lips. “Who said you had to scream for him?”

“What?” Lydia says innocently. “Like scream for someone else?”

The smile slides off the caretaker’s face. “Don’t play dumb with me, girl,” he snarls. “You know what you’re capable of.”

“Stiles wouldn’t want that,” she insists.

The kettle begins to whistle. The caretaker takes it off the hot plate as a too-familiar lump rises in Lydia’s throat. “You’re sure you won’t stay?” he asks, tone inviting once again.

She shakes her head. “Thank you,” she says, clutching her bag to her chest.

“Come and see me again, sweetheart!” the caretaker calls after her.

Lydia would be happy if she never saw him again. She hustles down the path to her car, light fading as the sun sets. She doesn’t make it in time.

The banshee falls to her knees, and she screams.

*           *           *

Every muscle in Derek’s body tenses when he hears Lydia’s far-off cry. He swears, picking up Stiles’ hand again. He wonders if he should call the sheriff, but he has no idea what he’d say - _come quick, the banshee just predicted Stiles’ death?_ For his part, the teenager doesn’t look any worse than he has all afternoon. His heart rate’s steady. The ventilator continues to click and hiss.

That’s when Derek notices Stiles’ eyes. They’re open.

The next thing the werewolf knows, Stiles is gagging. He’s tried to dislodge his breathing tube so many times Melissa finally had to strap his arms down. Stiles’ long fingers clamber, frantic, against the rails.

“Stiles,” Derek says, heart racing, “Stiles, it’s me, it’s Derek, you need to listen to me. You’re on the ventilator. The surgery - something went wrong, OK? You’re - ”

_You’re dying_.

But Stiles doesn’t appear to be dying. He stops shaking the bed. His heart rate evens out. His chin lifts in the barest of nods. His fingers brush Derek’s.

The werewolf’s heart is pounding. “I’m going to undo your hands. Do you promise not to yank on the breathing tube? Blink twice.”

Stiles closes his eyes once, opens them, closes them again. They’re filled with tears when he opens them again. Derek frees Stiles’ right hand. Immediately, Stiles mimics writing. The werewolf scrounges up a pen and a pad of hospital stationery.

Stiles takes a long time to scrawl three letters. _DAD?_

“He’s barely left your side,” Derek says. “But he needed sleep. Melissa - she asked if I could come sit with you for a few hours.”

Stiles is faster this time, like he’s remembered how to use his hands. _CALL?_

“Of course,” says Derek, still numb. He dials the sheriff, still debating if he should tell John about the banshee’s scream.

The sheriff picks up on the second ring. “Derek?” he says. He sounds strangely like Stiles, all the times the teen fell asleep at the loft while reading the bestiary and woken up bleary-eyed, confused. “What’s happening? Is he - ”

“He’s awake. He’s asking for you.”

There’s a rustling on the other end of the line. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” John promises, and he hangs up.

“Your dad’s coming,” Derek says, voice a little rough. He starts to reach for the call button, but Stiles shakes his head. His range of motion limited by the breathing tube, he choke-coughs.

Derek draws his hand back. “Do you not want the nurse?” he asks. Stiles squeezes out more tears when he blinks twice. The only thing Derek knows to do is to grab Stiles’ arm. The fear that Lydia just predicted the teen’s demise is still very real. He tries to rub the teen’s hand in his, but it only makes Stiles cry harder.

“I’m sorry,” Derek tells the teen, miserable. “I’m so sorry, Stiles. I wish there was something else for me to do.”

He has no idea if the teen remembers Derek trying to offload his pain after the crash. If not, he's sure Stiles has questions about why he's there, ones the werewolf feels ill-prepared to answer.

They sit like that for twenty minutes, Derek’s hand on Stiles’ arm, the werewolf apologizing lamely for every fresh round of tears Stiles cries. When the sheriff comes barreling through the door, Derek’s never been so relieved to see him.

“Hey,” John says, voice soothing as he cups Stiles’ cheek with his hand. “Hey, you’re OK. I know, I should have been here when you woke up. I’m here now, kiddo.”

Derek slips out of the room.

*           *           *

“Lean forward,” Melissa tells Stiles, lifting his shirt. “Car is to garage as airplane is to - ”

“Hangar,” he rasps, grimacing as she presses the cool stethoscope to his back. “Seriously, Melissa. I did about 90 of these yesterday with Dr. Alexander and the short, bald guy.”

“Dr. Weaver,” Melissa supplies, helping Stiles sit back. “He's the hospital neurologist.”

“Yeah, well, I don't know why he's so interested in me,” says Stiles, and he coughs. “Last I checked, I haven't had any brain surgeries.”

Melissa has to grab his hand before he can start rubbing his abdomen again. “How's the pain today, Stiles?”

The teen shrugs. “Can I have some water?” She gets him a cup. He spills a little on the front of his hospital gown and makes a face as he swallows. “My throat still hurts.”

“Give it a few more days,” she tells him. “It's going to be sore from the breathing tube for awhile.”

Stiles is nothing if not persistent. “Why does Dr. Weaver keep coming by?”

_Because your brain was without oxygen for so long._ “I think just to make sure all the sedation hasn't had any lingering effects.”

“Oh,” says Stiles. She _swears_ she can see the wheel turning as he considers it. “Melissa?”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“I was supposed to - I was going to get to leave the ICU. After the surgery, Dr. Alexander said I'd be moved to the rehab floor.”

Her heart sinks. They've been over this. Several times, in fact. But Stiles never seems to remember. “The stent Dr. Alexander had to put in needs time to heal, Stiles. Then he'll schedule you for the surgery he wasn’t able to finish. If there aren't further complications, then yes. You’ll move to the rehab floor.”

“No stupid age restrictions?” Stiles asks hopefully.

“Just visiting hours,” Melissa promises. It's the fourth or fifth time they've been over this, too. “One more, kiddo. Nose is to smell as foot is to - ”

“You can't walk on one foot,” Stiles says.

*           *           *

Kira’s barely had time to write her name on her pop quiz (she’s not sure it’s really a _pop quiz_ if she heard her dad talking about it the night before) when her father crouches by her desk and asks, “Where’s Scott?”

The kitsune’s eyes flicker to the empty seat next to her. “I don’t know,” she whispers, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling that’s been churning in her stomach since Scott disappeared after first period. “Why would I know?”

Ken arches an eyebrow. “Because the two of you are dating?” he asks, straightening to address the class. “OK, settle down. I’m going to leave the door open while I make copies. I don’t want to hear from Ms. Martin next door that you were discussing your answers.”

For the first five minutes, the room is quiet except for the scratching of pencils. Kira tries not to worry about her boyfriend’s whereabouts, trying instead to remember what happened in the Soviet Union between the death of Stalin and the rise of Gorbachev. But as people finish their quizzes, there’s a steady buzz from the back of the room.

“Even his girlfriend doesn’t know where he is,” she hears someone whisper, kicking the chair Scott would usually occupy with a boot.

“Please, he’s at the hospital,” the kid next to him replies. “They’re operating on Stilinski again. That’s what Nathan said. His mom’s a nurse, you know.”

Kira’s pretty sure Scott would have told her if Stiles was in surgery again. She shades in C on her answer sheet, tries to tune them out.

The first kid snorts. “Why bother?” he mutters. “I hear Stilinski’s practically a vegetable.”

“He is not,” Kira huffs, whipping her head around and glaring at the two boys. Overhead, the lights flicker. She turns back around quickly.

The guy behind her nudges her hard in the back. “What do you know?” Kira doesn’t answer, so he tries again, louder this time. “C’mon, Yukimura?”

“It’s none of your business,” Kira snaps, twisting around to face them again. Now half of the class is watching. Her cheeks flush.

There’s a crackle, then a pulse. The lights go out. It’s not just their classroom, either. Out in the hall, Kira can hear Lydia’s mom and the other teachers opening their doors, asking each other what happened.

Her dad is back in a flash. “Relax, relax,” he tells his students. “The fuse box shorted out, that is all.”

But the look he gives his daughter from the front of the classroom tells Kira they both know the true cause.

*           *           *

“Time to wake up, Stiles,” says Melissa, gently shaking the teen’s shoulder his first morning on the rehab floor. “How’s the new room treating you?”

“It’s - it’s nice,” Stiles grits, blinking back sleep as she helps him sit up. “I like the window.”

“People always say the view’s better down here,” says Melissa, glancing out over the parking lot as she takes his pulse, “but I don’t know if I see it.”

“Yeah, well, anything’s an improvement over the ICU,” Stiles points out, letting her bend him forward. He groans as the movement pulls on his new sutures.  
Melissa draws back, holds the teen at arm’s length. “How’s the pain today, Stiles?”

“Uh, four.”

“Stiles.”

“Five?”

Melissa sighs. “Stiles, I’m not asking so you can tell me what I want to hear. I’m asking because we want to keep you comfortable.”

“Really, I’m fine,” Stiles insists, but he falters under Melissa’s gaze. He’s twisting the yellow bracelet on his wrist - it reads “FALL RISK” in big, block letters - as he admits, “It’s closer to seven.”

Melissa nods, puts her hands on her hips. “I’m supposed to help you take a bath. But if you don’t feel up to it - ”

“In the bathroom? Not in bed?”

“Yep,” says Melissa.

Stiles looks skeptical as he bites a nail. “I mean, are you - can you even lift me? I don't think I can - ” He breaks off.

“You’d be surprised how strong I am,” Melissa counters.

“I weigh more than you do.”

“Stiles - ” she hesitates “ - you know you’ve lost like 30 pounds, right?”

He bristles. “Thirty?”

Melissa shrugs. “Give or take.”

“No, right, a human leg is what, one-sixth of the body?” Stiles mutters. “OK, let’s do this.”

She half-expects him to fight her, but Stiles just nods as she walks him through the lift. By the time she gets him settled in the wheelchair, he’s panting, sweat prickling his brow.

“And you’re OK with me, right?” she asks, wheeling him into the bathroom.

Stiles shivers under the thin hospital gown. “Uh, you’ve seen - you’ve seen all the scars?”

Melissa crouches down until she’s at eye level with him. “I have, yes. But it won’t offend me if you want somebody else.”

“No, no, I don’t want anyone else to see,” he says quietly, and he lets her transfer him to the bath bench.

Melissa gives his shoulder a little squeeze before she unties the hospital gown. “Let me know if I do anything that hurts you, sweetie,” she says, starting the water.

Stiles nods as he drapes the gown over his groin.

Stiles’ hair is getting long - it hangs lank past his ears. She washes it with baby shampoo, uses the same care she did when the boys were little not to get it in his eyes. She’s about to ask if the temperature is alright when she notices it - Stiles’ shoulders beginning to quake.

Melissa shuts off the water. “Stiles - ”

He’s fingering the still-healing skin graft, a diamond of red-raw flesh jutting from his lowest rib down to his hipbone. “How many surgeries?” he asks.

“Seven.”

“How many more?”

“One or two.” _At least two._ Melissa changes her gloves. “Stiles, I need to change your ostomy pouch.”

Her heart breaks for the teen, who refuses to look at her while she inspects his stoma. Finally, as she’s securing the new pouch, he turns to her with tear-filled eyes and asks, “They’re going to fix it, right? I won’t always be shitting into a bag?”

“Yes,” Melissa says. She takes a deep breath. “Eventually.”

Stiles swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s possible Dr. Alexander won’t do the repair right away. He might want to send you home, let you get - ”

“I could be sent home like this?” Stiles interjects. “How am I supposed to - I can’t - there’s no way I can go back to school with - ”

“Stiles, look at me,” says Melissa, catching his hands before he can tug too hard at the pouch. “People go to work, to school, lead normal lives - ”

“Normal?” Stiles snorts. “Do you really want to talk to me about normal?” He flips up the edge of the gown.

Instead of answering, Melissa checks the incision on his residual limb. “It’s healing nicely,” she tells Stiles.

“Can we get on with this?”

Melissa doesn’t say anything, just turns the water back on and turns her back to give Stiles a little privacy while he washes up.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles as she helps him into a pair of clean boxers that hang loose on his thin hips. “I just - it’s a lot, y’know?”

Melissa smooths his damp hair as she settles on the edge of the tub. “Oh sweetie, I know it is. But I’m just so glad you’re here.”

Stiles jerks his head in the tiniest of nods. Melissa grabs his cheeks, kisses his forehead. “You can have visitors now,” she tries brightly. “I know Scott can’t wait to see you. Do you feel up to it?”

“I don’t - I know he has school,” Stiles mumbles.

“He wants to see you, Stiles,” Melissa says. “Do you want to see him?”

Melissa hates that he has to consider it. “Yeah, OK,” he says quietly as she secures as fresh bandage over his sutures. She helps him slide an old hoodie on over the hospital gown. He’s scratching absently at his ear now, like he’s trying to figure out what to do with his newly-long hair.

“If you want a haircut - ”

“Just buzz it,” Stiles interrupts. “One less thing for you to worry about since I can’t take care of myself.”

Melissa studies him for a second. He’s tugging at the hem of his boxers, pinning the fabric down with a thumb. She nods. “Of course, sweetie. I’ll come by later, OK? Let’s get you back in your wheelchair. On three. One, two, _three_.”

*           *           *

The sun is low in the sky when Stiles wakes up that evening. The last thing he remembers is eating a bland meal at noon with his dad, who’d popped by the hospital on his lunch to pepper Melissa with questions about the physical therapist who’s coming the next day. He’d barely said two words to his son, asking Stiles how he was feeling almost as an afterthought before calling the on-duty nurse to administer more drugs.

Stiles’ eyes are still trying to adjust when he notices Lydia sitting in the corner, flipping through a fashion magazine. He forces a smile. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey yourself,” the banshee says, throwing down the magazine and crossing the room. She presses the gentlest of kisses to his cheek.

Stiles closes his eyes as her hand closes around his. “I thought you hated hospitals,” he says quietly.

Lydia doesn’t answer, just smooths her other hand over his head. Melissa had come back to buzz his hair as soon as her shift ended. “I like it," Lydia declares, dropping into the bedside chair. “How are you feeling?”

Stiles shrugs. “I'm OK,” he says, watching as she begins rubbing small circles on his hand with her thumb. “Uh, how have things been?”

“Stiles - ”

“What?” he asks. “What am I supposed to talk about? I’ve been here for the last six weeks. I don’t have anything to say.”

“Seven,” Lydia whispers, so quietly Stiles probably wouldn’t have heard her had he not been watching her lips.

“Seven?”

“It's been seven weeks since the accident,” says Lydia. “Not six.”

Stiles groans, wresting his hand from hers. “Yeah, well, you lose track of time,” he bites. “And my dad won’t talk about it. I didn’t even know how many surgeries I’d had until this morning. I had to ask Melissa. Do you know what that’s like? To feel like there’s a secret everyone else knows but you?”

The banshee crosses her arms. “Yes.”

Right. Stiles swallows hard. “OK, I deserved that,” he concedes.

Lydia drums her fingertips against the bed rail. Her nails are bright red. “Hmm,” she murmurs.

“C'mon, Lydia. You're my only chance,” he says desperately. “Who else is going to tell me what happened?”

Finally, the banshee stops tapping. “There was a bus crash,” she says thoughtfully.

Stiles nods. “I know, uh, my leg got pinned somehow.”

“They think you - they think you were thrown out of a window,” Lydia says quietly, reaching for Stiles' hand again. He lets her take it. She clears her throat. “Your leg was - it ended up under the bus when it rolled.”

Stiles drops his other hand to his stump. “Right.” He’s surprised when Lydia reaches over the railing, her other hand hovering over his abdomen. He wants to push it away.

“There was was a piece of metal lodged in your stomach,” she whispers. “It ripped - ”

Stiles shoves her hand back. “You don’t have to say it,” he says roughly. “What - is everyone else home? I’m the only one still in the hospital, right?”

The banshee bites her lip. “Stiles.”

“I don't like that _Stiles_.”

“Seven,” she says again.

“I know,” he says impatiently. “I’ve been here seven weeks, I've had seven - ”

“No, Stiles,” Lydia interrupts. “There were fatalities. Seven people - seven of your teammates - died in the crash.”

“No.” Stiles blinks. “Not possible.”

“One of them was Danny.”

But he doesn't believe her. “No,” he says, more forcefully this time. “This isn't - this is _Beacon Hills_ , Lydia. Werewolves hurt people. Demonic spirits hurt people.

Not - not bus crashes.”

The room is starting to spin. There's a loud beep in his left ear. Someone is calling his name.

It's Lydia. “Stiles!”

He realizes the alarm on his heart monitor is going off. But when he tries to focus on Lydia's voice, he can't.

The door swings open. “What did you do?” the nurse demands.

“I didn't - I didn't do anything,” Lydia insists. “He has panic attacks sometimes - ”

Stiles blacks out.

*           *           *

“I know,” Melissa interjects midway through Lydia’s stammered plea, “I know. You thought you were doing the right thing.”

Lydia tries to peer through the little cutout in the door, but all she can see is the back of Stiles’ doctor. “He deserved to know,” she says finally, setting her jaw.

To her surprise, Melissa replies, “I don’t disagree.” There’s a beat. “He’s also not my son.”

Right. “Is - is the sheriff on his way?” Melissa nods. “I should probably clear off.”

“Probably.”

Lydia takes one last look into Stiles’ room. The doctor, no longer blocking her view of Stiles, is rummaging through the medicine cabinet. Her friend is biting his thumbnail. “Is Stiles - he’ll be OK, right?”

“The panic attack? He’ll recover quickly enough,” says Melissa, studying Lydia. “You’re not asking about the panic attack.”

The banshee turns on her heels and leaves the hospital. The day had started sunny, but now a sharp, cold spring wind whips her hair and has Lydia clutching her jacket tighter until she reaches her car. Her next stop is Derek’s, the imposing stone building rising in the gloom. She grabs the book on banshees he’d lent her - once she’d gotten the hang of the rune script, it hadn’t taken her long to translate it - and locks her car. The werewolf’s SUV is parked next to her. The front passenger tire looks a little flat.

Derek’s hauls the door open as soon as she steps off the elevator. “What do you want?” he growls. He’s dressed in a wife beater and gym shorts, covered in a sheen of sweat.

“Here,” Lydia says, pressing the leatherbound book into his hand. “I don’t need this anymore.”

The werewolf crosses his arms, so the book is tucked under one of his ridiculous biceps. “You were able to translate it,” he says flatly.

“I wouldn’t beat yourself up,” Lydia quips. “Plenty of linguists believe the ogham alphabet was intended to be a secret code.”

“You had help.”

Lydia’s sure her heart beat will betray her, so she says, “So what if I did?”

“How is he?”

She frowns. “How’s who?”

Derek glares at her. “You smell like hospital,” he says, tapping the cover of the book with two fingers, “and you wouldn’t be returning this if you didn’t think Stiles was out of the woods.”

“He’s - ” Lydia thinks of Stiles’ voice, weak with disuse, and wants to say _broken_.

“He’ll improve,” Derek insists, and Lydia has to wonder if the faux-confidence in his voice is for her benefit or his own. The werewolf jerks a thumb over his shoulder as if to say he’s going to get back to whatever sweaty activity he was doing when she triggered his spidey sense.

Lydia remembers. “One of your tires,” she tells him. “I think it needs air.”

She swears she sees a flash of blue. “Thanks,” he grunts.

He rolls the door shut behind him, and Lydia hits the elevator call button. Usually it would be waiting outside the penthouse after its last trip. But something must have called it back down while she talked to Derek because it takes forever to rise.

Lydia frowns as the doors close behind her. Wouldn’t they have heard the elevator clamber to life?

_Something must have called it back down._

Lydia’s heart begins to hammer. When the doors open on the ground floor, she half-considers riding right back up to Derek’s loft. But if something _did_ take the elevator up between her trips, it could have exited several floors below and taken the stairs up.

Even in her head, it sounds ridiculous. She shakes her head and exits the elevator, shivering in the crisp evening air as she leaves the building. Lydia squints in the waning sunlight. The parking lot looks no different than it did ten minutes earlier.

Except, her car looks like it’s sitting a little lower to the ground than it should be. And there’s a smell, a pungent, rotten -

A hulking figure steps out of the shadows of Derek’s SUV. It’s tall, too tall to be a man, which makes sense, because normal humans don’t wake up in the morning and don the bones of a beast. It strides forward.

Lydia doubts Derek can come to her aid in time, screams anyway. The bone-warrior is picking up speed as she stands frozen in place, unsure where to run.

She’s not expecting the rusty yellow truck that comes barrelling up the lane, crashing into the man-beast with a sickening crunch. The truck skids to a  halt and the passenger door swings open. A still-in-uniform Deputy Parrish grips the steering wheel with one hand. “Get in!”

Lydia doesn’t have to be told twice. She clambers onto the bench seat, short skirt be damned, and slams the door shut. The entire truck shakes as the thing beneath it howls with rage.

“Are you OK?” Parrish asks, throwing it in reverse. “I heard you - ”

There’s a _thud_ as it dislodges from the underside of the truck. Lydia expects to see broken bones littering the ground in front of them. But the creature seems to have vanished.

Until it reappears a half-second later, attacking Parrish through the open window. There’s a spray of blood - Parrish’s, though Lydia can’t be certain - before the deputy manages to draw his gun and fire three times at it. There’s a sickening crunch, and when the smoke clears, Lydia can see part of its beaky skull has been blasted away.

“Drive!” she shrieks.

Parrish slams his foot into the accelerator, and the old truck rockets backward, out of the lot and into the street. The engine’s even louder than Stiles’ Jeep. Lydia gropes for her seatbelt as Parrish floors it, tires squealing as they take off.

“Is it still behind us?” Parrish wants to know.

Lydia swallows hard. “Faster,” she urges. She needs to warn Derek, but when she reaches for her purse, she realizes she must have dropped it in the melee. She glances at Parrish, gripping the steering wheel with one white-knuckled hand, attempting to stanch the flow of blood with the other. He has to let go of his bleeding bicep to shift. Blood drips from his palm. She cranes her neck. The creature is nowhere to be seen. “Pull over.”

“That thing - ” Parrish pants. But he does as she says, cranking up the window while he’s at it. He’s lost most of his color. “I think I need to go to the hospital.”

Lydia slides over to inspect the wound. Her stomach turns. The blood dripping off his tattered sleeve is black, not red. “Not the hospital,” she whispers.

*           *           *

The vehicle that pulls up outside the clinic is old, loud, engine knocking. Scott’s first thought is of Stiles’ Jeep. Of course, his friend’s in the hospital, probably still asleep, like he’d been after school when Scott stopped by to visit. And his Jeep, well, it had disappeared from the parking lot a few days after the bus crash.

“Scott!” Lydia’s voice is faint, frantic. “Scott, I need help!”

The cat he’d been bathing mewls as he plunks it dripping wet into the nearest cage. The bells on the front door chime wildly as he races to her aid. She’s got the driver’s side door of an old pickup open and is trying to drag a half-conscious Parrish out of the truck. Scott slings the deputy’s arm over his shoulder, drags him into the clinic. Black blood oozes from a deep cut on his shoulder.

“What happened?” Scott asks, grabbing a rag to press against the open wound.

Lydia’s hands are shaking. “We were attacked,” she says. “This thing - it was big and bony, it must have been waiting for - ”

“Bony,” Scott interrupts. “Like - ”

“Like a bear-man,” slurs Parrish, managing to lift his head. He coughs, spits a little black blood up.

“Call Deaton,” Scott tells Lydia, and he begins rummaging through the cabinets, knocking past bottles and canisters until he finds it, the glass jar with the blue stones. There’s one left. “Here goes nothing,” he mutters, yanking Parrish by the chin and pushing the rock under his tongue.

A full minute passes before Parrish sputters, coughs, spits out the stone. Instead of an ashy grey, it’s turned coal black. The wound on his arm doesn’t close, either, though when Scott peels back the rag, he’s bleeding red blood.

Lydia slips back into the room. “Deaton’s on the way,” she says.

“Deaton?” asks Parrish, incredulous. “Dr. Deaton? The veterinarian?”

“Yes,” Scott says, in unison with Lydia. He clears his throat. “Deaton works on werewolves.”

“But I’m not a werewolf,” Parrish protests. His eyes widen. “Wait - ”

“Relax,” Lydia says, stepping in between Scott and the deputy. She takes over for the alpha, applying pressure to Parrish’s arm. “Whatever attacked us was supernatural. When you bled black blood, I figured it had poisoned you somehow.”

“Like the oni.”

“Someone’s been doing their homework,” she murmurs. She turns to Scott. “What was that? The thing you put in his mouth?”

Scott shakes his head. “Deaton called it a bezoar, but I don’t know anything about it.”

“Then how’d you know it would cure me?”

“I - didn’t,” Scott admits. “But it’s what Deaton gave to Derek after he ran into the berserker.”

“What’s a berserker?” Parrish asks.

At the same time Lydia says, “Like the Norse warriors?”

“Very good, Lydia,” says Deaton, stepping out of the shadows. The corners of the veterinarian’s mouth twitch up into a wry smile at what Scott’s sure is a dumbfounded look. “I was already on my way. Can I take a look at your arm, Deputy?”

If Scott’s not mistaken, the banshee is reluctant to leave Parrish’s side. So he grabs Lydia’s arm and tugs her into the back room. “What happened?” he demands. “Where were you?”

“Derek’s,” Lydia says. “I’d borrowed a book. You don’t have to manhandle me, Scott. I’ll talk.”

“Right,” he says, letting go of her elbow and shifting his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot. “Sorry. I’m just a little - ”

“I know. I saw him, too.”

Scott exhales slowly, raking a hand through his hair. “Mom keeps telling me it won’t always be like this,” he says. “She says Stiles can lead a normal life. I just - I don’t see how.”

The banshee’s lips form a thin, red line. “Does normal include berserkers?”

Scott tells her everything he knows about the warriors who wear the skins of bears, which isn’t much. “I should have told you,” he apologizes. “I thought Derek took care of it, and with - ”

“It’s fine.”

Back in the exam room, Deaton is dabbing antiseptic on Parrish’s arm. “A few stitches should close it up,” he tells the deputy. “I’d be happy to do it, but I understand if you’d rather go to the hospital.”

There’s a moment where Parrish clearly weighs his options: let a veterinarian suture him up, or spend the night in the emergency room trying to come up with a plausible explanation for his bloody bicep. “I mean, if it’s not too much trouble,” he grits.

Deaton gives Parrish an injection of lidocaine - it's marked for veterinary use only - and asks Lydia to sit with the deputy until it takes effect. “Scott, I’d like a word in back. Just let me make a quick call first.”

A minute passes, the cat he’d been washing when Lydia and Parrish rolled up hissing angrily from its cage. Scott can hear snippets of their conversation - if he closes his eyes, he practically can see Lydia reach out and ask, “What’s this?” before Parrish snaps, “Haven’t you ever seen a bullet scar before?” - and the eavesdropping feels intimate, wrong. Scott tries to tune it out.

Funny, he can’t hear Deaton at _all_.

“I just talked to Derek,” his emissary says, slipping into the room. “That’s how I knew to come here. He heard Lydia scream, watched the berserker chase her and Parrish from the parking lot. He thought they took off in this direction.”

Perspiration prickles at Scott’s neck. “Why didn’t he help?” the alpha demands. “Why didn’t he call me?”

“He said he tried you first.”

Scott’s hands fly to his jeans. He pats his front pockets, then his back. “I must have - ”

“Your phone’s by the computer at the front desk,” Deaton interjects. There it is, the wry smile again. “Anyway, Derek says he tried to give chase, but he wasn’t fast enough. He has Lydia’s purse. He said something about needing to fix a flat tire. I told him you’d head that way.”

Scott’s cheeks feel like they’re on fire. “Yeah, OK,” he mumbles. Before Deaton can continue, he’s pushing open the exam room door. “Lydia, I’m going to go get your car. I’ll pick you up - ”

“At Parrish’s,” she says. “Pick me up at Parrish’s.”

The deputy looks like he wants to protest, but instead he tells Scott, “You know the complex at Beacon Hills Pointe?” The alpha nods. “Apartment 210.”

Scott’s motorcycle jacket doesn’t provide much protection from the cool, fat raindrops starting to fall. Still, he doesn’t go straight to Derek’s. He rides north on Circle Street until it loops back toward the city, at which point he cuts west toward the preserve, trying to pick up any sign of the berserker. It’s only when he’s chilled to the bone does he ride out to the old industrial area where Derek lives.

He pulls in just as the other werewolf is loading the jack back into the Prius’ trunk. He plucks the keys from Derek’s hand without a word.

“Scott.” The alpha stops, but he doesn’t turn. “Is Lydia all right?”

“She’s fine.”

Derek closes the trunk with a metallic thud. “Listen - had I known - I really thought we - ”

“I said, _she’s fine_.”

Scott knows his eyes are glowing, doesn’t care.

*           *           *

Lydia insists on driving him back to his place.

Parrish decides it’s best not to examine too closely the choices that put him riding in his own passenger seat through a rain-slicked Beacon Hills, so he stares out the window instead. He finally works up the courage to ask, “Where’d you learn to drive a stick?”

“Stiles.”

Right. Parrish swallows. “Sorry,” he says, averting his eyes. She’s clutching the shifter so tight her knuckles are turning white. He’s surprised by her nail polish. It’s chipped and cracked. “It’s not any of my - ”

“No, it’s fine,” Lydia interrupts. She rolls to a stop, tucks a loose strand of red hair behind her ear as she waits for the light to change. “I actually went to see him today. They finally moved him out of the ICU.”

Parrish already knows this. “He’s - how is he?”

“Honestly?” Lydia asks. Before Parrish can answer, she continues, “He had a panic attack.”

Not sure what to say to this, Parrish points to the driveway of his apartment complex. “Take a left.”

He imagines the sign at the entrance - it would spell “The Apartments at Beacon Hills Pointe” if all the letters were still there - looked nice when it was first installed. Now, it’s almost as sad as the overgrown playground behind it. Parrish can feel the tips of his ears turning red just as Lydia asks, “This is where you live?”

“Yeah,” he says defensively. He tries not to be irritated as she follows him up the rickety steps to his second floor apartment. Of course Lydia’s surprised. He’s seen the mansion she calls home. “It is.”

He watches her eyes dart from the mismatched pots and pans in the drying rack to the broken folding chair in the dining area to the threadbare couch he’d picked up for $20 at Goodwill. He bows his head as he locks up behind her. “Very homey.”

It occurs to Parrish she’s the first person who’s ever seen the place. (Well, other than that one time he dragged Deputy Michaels out of the local cop bar to sleep it off.) He’s not sure how he feels about Lydia Martin skimming her fingers over the quilt on the back of the couch. Sue had made it for him during his first tour in Iraq.

“I’m gonna - ” says Parrish, jerking his thumb in the direction of his bedroom, eager to get out of his bloody uniform. When he goes to pull the door shut behind him, he’s not expecting her to be hovering.

“Do you need - ”

Now Parrish is _actually_ annoyed. “No,” he says, and he shuts the door before the 17-year-old can press any deeper into his apartment.

It takes some wiggling, but he’s able to slip his injured bicep out of his uniform shirt. Parrish winces. He considers shucking his undershirt - there’s a spray of blood down the left side - but it’s his bad shoulder, and it gives an uncomfortable twinge that makes him reconsider. He unholsters his sidearm and swaps his trousers for sweatpants before padding barefoot back into the living room.

Lydia is inspecting one of the framed photos on his bookcase. Parrish frowns, crossing the room with his hands tucked under his arms. “What do you think you’re - ”

She holds up his nephew Cayden’s most recent school picture. “Relax,” she tells him. “It slipped out of the frame. I was just putting it back.”

Parrish reddens as she tucks Cayden back in next to Jayden, the wallet-size photos covering the bottom third of a framed portrait of the twins as toddlers. “My sister’s boys,” he tells Lydia, absently scratching the back of his head.

“They’re cute,” she tells him. “They have your ears.”

“My ears?” Parrish squints at the photo. He doesn’t see it.

“Yeah,” says Lydia. She points at the next photo, of him, Jim, Sue and Sam at his graduation from basic training. “Your family?”

He swallows, settles on, “Uh, yeah.” Lydia’s gaze settles on the photo of him and Jake next, the former soldier's metal leg visible below his shorts. Parrish says, “My buddy Jake.”

She bites her lip. She’s thinking about Stiles, he’s certain. “Did - did he lose his leg in Iraq?”

“Afghanistan,” Parrish corrects. “We saw more roadside bombs in Afghanistan.”

“Oh.”

And they’ve reached it, the moment Parrish has been dreading. He watches Lydia’s eyes land on the photo of the five of them, the desert of Kandahar endless in the background. He’s not anticipating the little step forward she takes to get a better look.

“Well, that’s you, obviously,” says Lydia, pointing to him, second from the right. “Wow. I almost didn’t recognize Jake without the beard.”

At that, Parrish has to chuckle. “It’s - a little scraggly,” he says charitably. But a lump wells up in his throat, trying to decide what he’ll say when she asks about the other three.

Her fingers glance the frame, and the next thing Parrish knows he’s catching the redhead with his injured arm.

Lydia, for her part, looks horrified. Her bright red lips hang open as she stares up at him. “I’m so sorry,” she mutters, scrambling away from him, away from the photo.

Parrish winces, starting to rub his bicep before remembering he risks dislodging his stitches. “It’s fine, really. Do you feel light-headed? I can get you - ”

“They’re all dead,” Lydia whispers. “They’re - ”

Technically, Cole’s not dead. He’s in a nursing home in Chattanooga. But he can’t walk, can’t talk, _can’t recognize his own son_ , so Parrish is pretty sure the distinction is irrelevant. Lydia’s hand darts for the photo of his graduation, and he’s pretty sure she knows Jim is dead, too.

Parrish can’t help it. “What are you?” he asks.

“I - ” She’s interrupted by a ringing phone. It’s Scott, there with her car.

“I’ll walk you out,” Parrish offers.

Lydia shakes her head. “You don’t have to do that, Deputy,” she says. And, her voice small, she adds, “I'm sorry.”

*           *           *

“I like Lydia,” John tells Melissa the next morning as Stiles picks at the unappetizing egg white omelet on his breakfast tray, “but if she's going to get him all worked up - ”

“I'm right here, you know,” Stiles points out.

The sheriff ignores his son. “I'm not sure if letting the kids pop in whenever they want will help Stiles recover any faster.”

Melissa at least has the decency to look down at Stiles before answering. “John, do you think Lydia meant to upset Stiles? She means well. All the kids do.”

John rubs his temple. “I know they do. But you heard Dr. Alexander. If it happens again, they'll have to put him on something for the anxiety, and his meds are complicated as is.”

Stiles stabs so hard at the omelet with his fork a bit of egg flies off the plate. “Does it even matter what I want?” he mutters, taking a swig of milk. He immediately spits it back in the cup. “What the hell is that?”

“It's soy,” Melissa tells him, “and since you need plenty of liquids right now, drink up. You’re missing the point, John. Stiles will heal faster if he has his friends' support.”

The sheriff doesn't say anything, just leaves the room red-faced, pulling the door shut with more force than necessary.

“I had a right to know what happened,” Stiles insists. “I only asked Lydia because _he_ wouldn't tell me.”

Melissa glances at the door as though she expects his dad to return any moment. But Stiles doubts it. He’s pretty sure the sheriff doesn’t see him anymore, just an injured kid he’s stuck taking care of.

“I get that Stiles, I do,” Melissa says finally, “but maybe you shouldn’t have opened with you’ll be 18 in a few days, you’ll have whoever you want in here then.”

Stiles pushes his tray away. “I’m not hungry,” he declares.

He expects her to tell him to eat more, but she doesn’t say anything as she clears his dishes. “I doubt it'll make a difference to you, but your dad’s been trying to figure out how to tell you. He wanted to wait until you were a little stronger.”

“Is that so,” Stiles grouses.

He's not expecting Melissa to snap, “You get that you almost died, right?”

“Yeah, I’d kind of worked that out,” Stiles says dryly.

“Do you, Stiles? Do you really?”

He averts his eyes. “I mean, I know I needed all those surgeries,” he mutters.

“Let me spell it out for you, Stiles. You probably _should_ have died. The odds weren’t in your favor. Your dad’s spent the last seven weeks afraid he’d have to bury you. So cut him some slack.”

Stiles squirms under her gaze. He changes the subject to something safer. “Uh, hey, you said Scott was going to come by yesterday. Did I miss him?”

Melissa gives him a pointed look as she pulls back the covers to check his stump. “He didn’t want to wake you since you’d been in so much pain.”  
“Oh.”

“I’m sure he’ll be by again today,” says Melissa, her tone back to reassuring. “Your residual limb, by the way? It looks great. You’re going to be ready for a shrinker soon.”

Stiles looks at her quizzically. “A shrinker?” he repeats.

Melissa holds her hands like she’s carrying a ball. “It’s a type of compression sock. It’ll help shape what’s left of your leg so you can be fitted for a prosthesis.”

He leans forward, trying to see his leg the way she does. But to Stiles, it’s just a useless knob of flesh, looks sort of like a trussed ham. “That sounds terrible,” he complains, flopping back dramatically as she tucks the sheets back in around him.

Melissa grabs his shoulder. “It'll help you walk again.”

Stiles pushes her hand off. It won’t bring back any of his teammates.

*           *           *

These days, Deaton’s about the only person who can still sneak up on Scott. He steps into the clinic’s dimly lit back room and says in a low voice, “I thought you’d be visiting Stiles.”

Scott, who’s worked up a sweat pummeling the punching bag in the back room, grunts in response. He feints right, jabs left, sends the bag skittering off the hook. Deaton manages to jump out of the way at the last second. He catches the alpha’s elbow. “Easy there, Scott.”

“How do you do that?” Scott demands. His chest is heaving. He’s out of breath. “Why didn’t I hear you coming?”

“It’s - something emissaries can do,” Deaton says, crossing his arms. “An _emanation_ , of sorts, to protect us from enemies of the pack.”

“But I’m not an enemy,” Scott counters, though he reaches for a broom to clean up the sand that’s spilled from a small split in the punching bag. “It’s _my_ pack.”

It annoys him that Deaton sounds slightly amused when he replies, “Of course it is, Scott.”

“Well, maybe you could stop _emanating_ around me, then.”

“In time, you’ll learn to hear me, Scott. It won’t matter if I’m in the next room or the next county.” Deaton smiles infuriatingly. “Now, as I was saying, I’m surprised to see you here. I thought you’d still be at the hospital.”

Now Scott is using duct tape to repair the much-abused punching bag. “Stiles wasn’t awake,” he says. “I didn’t see a point in sticking around.”

“Not even if he wakes up?”

“Look,” Scott says, nostrils flaring, “if you want me to go back, just say it.” His mom’s already been on his case about not spending enough time with Stiles.

“Do _you_ want to go back to the hospital?”

Instead of answering, Scott picks up the newly-repaired punching bag and hangs it back on the hook. “I want,” he says, the pounding of his knuckles into the vinyl punctuating his words, “to be ready when the berserker comes back. That’s what it was, right? The thing that attacked Lydia and Parrish?”

Deaton circles the alpha. “Widen your stance,” he tells Scott. “Swing your right foot out a little farther.”

“Like this?”

“Yes,” says Deaton simply. “And I’m not so sure.”

Scott stops swinging. “About what?”

“That what Lydia and Deputy Parrish encountered was a berserker,” says Deaton.

Scott’s mouth is dry. “Argent thinks it was a berserker,” he mumbles.

Deaton’s voice is sharp. “You spoke to Argent?”

“Parrish called it a bear-man.”

There’s a long pause, but Deaton doesn’t bring up the hunter again. “Then the berserker must be very weak. A warrior wearing the skin of a bear shouldn’t have any trouble dispensing with a banshee and an ordinary sheriff’s deputy.”

Another punch. “The Hales _did_ run it over a cliff.” Punch, punch, punch. “Wouldn’t that - you know, do some damage?”

Deaton steps forward, repositions Scott’s arms. Then he takes a step back. “But it’s not after the Hales, Scott. It’s after _your pack_.”

Scott’s sharp claws rip seamlessly into the bag, raining sand and synthetic beans all over the clinic floor.

*           *           *

“ _C'mon_ ,” Stiles pleads, and he shoves his bracelet-clad wrist between Derek's nose and the book he’s reading, “just rip it off with your teeth.”

Again, Derek pushes Stiles' arm out of his face. “No, Stiles,” he says firmly.

“Then why are you even _here_ ,” Stiles complains.

Derek finally looks up. “Would you rather I not be? Because I can leave,” he asks.

Stiles, who Derek knows had woken up alone and had another panic attack before the sheriff relented on the pack visiting, mutters, “No.”

This time Derek catches Stiles’ hand before the teen can shove it in his face again. “Why do you want it gone, anyway?”

Stiles wrenches his arm away, scowling. “It's stupid,” he says. “Of course I'm a fall risk. I only have one leg.”

“You should page Melissa,” Derek replies. “Have her up your meds again.”

Stiles frowns, smoothing his hand over his brutally short hair. “What makes you think - “

“I touched your arm, didn't I?” Derek interrupts. “You're in pain, Stiles. Call Melissa.”

“No.”

“Not asking for morphine when you need it isn’t going to get you home any faster,” Derek reminds Stiles.

Stiles’ heart begins to beat faster - not enough to trigger the alarm, but enough Derek notices. “It’ll knock me out,” he mutters. “I want to be awake when Scott comes by later. I keep missing him.”

“Maybe Scott needs to find a different time to come by.”

There’s a pause. “You don’t - you don’t think he’s avoiding me, do you?”

Derek flips to the next page in his book. “I think there’s going to be an adjustment period.”

Stiles huffs a little. “Is that even English?” he demands, like Derek owes him the courtesy of reading in a language he, too, can understand. Before the werewolf can answer, Stiles asks, “Why do I always get you in the mornings when I’m the most lucid?”

“Your friends have school.”

Stiles’ eyes flick toward the stack of books and folders building on the windowsill. They hadn’t been there the day before, and Derek assumes Lydia, maybe Kira, had dropped them off after he left. “They want me to get caught up,” Stiles tells Derek. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

“You can worry about school once you’re home,” Derek says evenly. “Give me your hand.”

“Are you going to rip off the bracelet?” Stiles asks hopefully.

Derek rolls his eyes. “ _No_ , I'm going to take some of your pain.”

Stiles blinks. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I don’t mind.”

Finally, Stiles takes the hand Derek offers. The werewolf's veins go dark as he absorbs Stiles' pain. It’s not pleasant, but compared to the spikes that had come off the teen at the crash site and later in the ICU, it’s nothing. Derek could do this all day.

Not that Stiles would let him. He jerks his hand back after only a minute or two, just enough to take the edge off. “Thanks,” he says.

“Glad to help.”

“I know you were there,” Stiles blurts. “After the crash. I know you - I know you held my hand. I know you took my pain, kept me calm.”

It’s not exactly a secret. Scott knows. Melissa knows. The whole pack, probably. In fact, it’s in the accident report that Derek was arrested for interfering. The werewolf has little doubt Stiles will try to get his hands on that the second he’s released. So he says, “It was your shoulders.”

“What?”

“I didn’t hold your hand,” Derek continues. “The angle was wrong. Your jersey was torn. So I slipped my hands underneath and touched your shoulders.”

“Oh.”

Derek opens his book.

“Derek?”

He closes it again. It’s his turn to ask, “What?”

“Why were you there, anyway? Were you - were you coming to our game?”

“You left your helmet at the loft,” says Derek. “Do you remember stopping by? You and Scott skipped last period.”

“The last thing I remember that day is lunch. I asked Kira - ” Stiles trails off, clears his throat. “No. I don’t actually remember that. I remember Kira telling me about it. I don’t - I’m not sure what I remember last.”

Privately, Derek thinks this is good. Stiles doesn’t need to remember the bloody aftermath of the crash, his extended stay in the ICU. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I wish you’d stop saying that. I wish _everyone_ would stop saying that. Don’t I deserve to know what happened? After the nogitsune - ” the word comes out a little strangled “ - I don’t like not knowing.”

“Is that what this is about?” Derek asks, trying to shake the mental image of Stiles, spitting up blood as he explained why he deserved to be under the bus. “Do you honestly think you were being punished, Stiles?”

The teen hunches his shoulders. “I don’t know,” he says quietly. “Maybe.”

Stiles’ hand is curled into a tight fist next to him on the mattress. Derek picks it up, forces the teen to unfurl his fingers. “The crash wasn’t your fault, Stiles. You were just - ”

But Stiles clearly doesn’t want to hear he was at the wrong place at the wrong time. “I’m going to call for more meds,” he tells Derek, forcefully removing his hand from the werewolf’s grip. “I think you should go.”

“Stiles - ”

Stiles slaps the call button with a loud smack. “Get out of here, Derek.”

*           *           *

Melissa’s touch is gentle as she wipes Stiles’ most recent incision with antiseptic solution. “I know, it hurts,” she says. “But I really didn’t like the way it looked.”

Stiles’ eyes are watering with pain. “It’s fine,” he swears weakly. “The last thing I need is for it to get infected, right?”

“You’re a good sport,” Melissa tells him as she closes the wound with a clear dressing, not the usual layer of gauze and surgical tape. “I’ll have Dr. Alexander swing by later, take a look.”

“OK,” says Stiles with a shrug. He winces as the new bandage tugs uncomfortably on his dry skin. “Do you think Scott - ”

There’s a loud creak as Melissa steps on the pedal to open the medical waste bin. She drops in the gauze she’d just peeled from Stiles’ midsection. It hits with a wet-sounding plop. “If this is infected, Stiles, the doctor might want to move you back upstairs.”

She means _back to the ICU_. “Oh.”

“It’d be temporary,” Melissa says. She pats his good knee. “I promise.”

Stiles swallows hard. “So no Scott.”

Melissa, who’s helping Stiles back into his hoodie, freezes. “I swear, Stiles, he does come by. It just happens to be when you’re napping.”

Stiles gets it. He’s asleep more than he’s awake these days. Still, he misses his best friend. “No, I know, he’s got school and work. I’m sure I’ll see him this weekend.”

Stiles knows whatever Melissa says next is going to be bad because she eases back onto the edge of the bed and kisses his cheek. “I’m not sure if your dad told you,” she says gently, “but the hospital counselor is on her way down.”

Suddenly Stiles’ mouth is very dry, and there’s a lump in his throat he can’t swallow. “He must have forgotten,” he mumbles.

The kiss Melissa presses to his temple reminds Stiles so much of his mom it breaks his heart. “Oh, sweetie, I swear, patients love Crystal. You’ll be in good hands.”

Crystal knocks about ten minutes after Melissa leaves. By Stiles’ estimation, she’s in her 30s, an armful of bangle bracelets on her right wrist. “Stiles?” she asks, watching as he raises the bed. “My name is Crystal. I work for Beacon Hills Memorial - ”

“As a counselor, yeah,” Stiles interrupts, shaking the hand she’s extended. “Right. Uh, what - what do you need to know?”

“How’s your pain today?” she asks, drawing up a chair and opening his file. It’s thick, an inch at least, and he’s pretty sure he sees Miss Morrell’s handwriting on one manila tab.

It gives him pause. “It’s fine,” he lies, and he forces a small smile. He knows better than to let it linger. Overselling won’t help his case.

“Melissa says the doctor might drop in to check the incision from your most recent surgery.”

Stiles flicks the two strings of his hoodie against each other. “Melissa worries,” he mumbles.

He knows Crystal is studying him. “I just wanted to make sure you wouldn’t prefer I come back another day.”

“Uh, today’s fine,” says Stiles. _Flick, flick, flick._

“It says here you used to have panic attacks,” says Crystal. “What about recently?

“Just a couple,” Stiles admits because he’s sure that’s in there, too. “I didn’t know about the other kids on the bus. It was - it was hard to hear.”

“That must have been tough,” says Crystal. There’s sympathy in her voice that feels genuine, but that’s it, that’s the job.

“Yeah.”

“But it says here you don’t want to take an antidepressant.”

“No,” says Stiles. “I don’t - I didn’t like how they made me feel.”

It’s a lie, but one he can get away with because Crystal has no way of knowing he never took the Prozac he’d been prescribed after his mother’s death. He’d told his dad on second thought he didn’t need any medication, and the sheriff had signed in relief. He wouldn’t have to drug his 10-year-old after all.

Crystal nods. “I hear that a lot, actually,” she says, “and I’m going to try to help you without medication. But Stiles? If you get tired of doing this solo, need to take the edge off - well, it’s an option.”

_Flick, flick, flick._

“I want to talk about what was happening in your life before the accident.”

The hoodie Stiles is wearing had always been big, but he’s lost so much weight convalescing it hangs off him. The fabric bunches up under his arms when he crosses them. “OK.”

“You weren’t having the easiest year, were you?” Crystal asks, now flipping through Stiles’ file too fast to be reading it. “It must have been scary being trapped at your dad’s office while one of your classmates threatened you with a gun.”

“Matt killed four deputies,” Stiles says. He’d gone to all of their funerals, hung back as his dad thanked their wives and girlfriends and mothers for their sacrifice. “That’s beyond threatening me with a gun.”

“And then your friend Scott and his girlfriend were carjacked,” Crystal continues. “It - ”

“I wasn’t there,” Stiles interrupts. “And Allison wasn’t - Scott was with Kira when - when _that_ happened.”

“Hmm,” says Crystal, and she drums her pen once on Stiles’ file without making a note. “Then there’s the health scare. They thought you might have frontotemporal dementia - ”

“Don’t say it,” Stiles begs.

“ - like your mom.”

Stiles hunches his shoulders, tries to disappear in the too-big hoodie. “I’m - I think I need to lie down.”

“Do you want me to page a nurse?” Crystal asks, rising to her feet as her bracelets click and clack.

Stiles flops onto his side, his left side, onto his stump, the side he’s not supposed to be lying on, away from her. “No.”

Before she goes, Crystal leans down and rests a hand on his bed. “I’m not just trying to stir up bad memories, Stiles. I want to help you. It’s never too late for a normal life.”

Realizing she’s not going to leave until he acknowledges what she’s said, Stiles nods. “OK.”

“I’ll see you next week, Stiles.”

He’s sort of glad Scott’s avoiding him. At least the alpha won’t see him cry.

*           *           *

Scott knocks once, twice, is surprised to see Stiles sitting up in bed, a purple hoodie draped loose around his shoulders. He blinks, stares at Scott like he’s having trouble focusing. “Hey,” he says.

“You’re awake,” says Scott uncomfortably, burying his hands in his pockets. He tries not to look at the blankets bunched at Stiles’ waist, at the empty space where his best friend’s leg should be.

“Your mom said I’ve been missing you all week, so - ” Stiles shrugs “ - it’s good to see you, man.”

Scott lets his book bag fall to the floor with a heavy thud. Stiles looks better than he did in the ICU, but that same, sick-sweet scent lingers in the air. Dropping heavily into the chair, Scott manages, “Yeah, you too.”

“I might not be up for long,” says Stiles, his eyelids already at half-mast. “They’ve still - I’m on a lot of drugs.”

Scott forces a smile. “That’s OK,” he lies. “Uh, how are you feeling?”

Stiles flicks one thumbnail against the other, a compulsion. “You know. Ready to be out of the hospital.”

Scott doesn’t know. Scott has no idea. “Do you - how much longer do you have to stay?”

“Long enough to have two more surgeries.”

“Oh.” Scott swallows hard. “I’m sure I’ll - once school lets out, I’ll try to get by more often. You know, when you’re actually awake.”

Now Stiles’ eyes are completely closed. “Tell me what I missed,” he murmurs.

“What you missed?” Scott repeats. Seven funerals, that’s what Stiles missed.

“I’ve been in here - ” Stiles taps the back of his knuckles against the mattress “ - a long time.”

Scott swallows the lump in his throat. “Yeah,” he agrees. He doesn’t say anything else. He gives it a minute, until Stiles’ breathing evens out. He grabs his bookbag and slips out of the room.

His mom is at the nurse’s station. “Scott,” she says, and he recognizes the uncomfortable way she shifts her weight, “I’m sorry. I _just_ gave him a shot of Dilaudid. He’s got an infection.”

“I - ” Scott balls his hand into a fist “ - I noticed.”

“Scott, it’s not his fault.”

“I didn’t say it was,” he snaps.

“He wants to see you.”

“And I want to see him,” Scott says, irritated. “I want to see Stiles. Not - not - ”

“Scott.”

“I’ll see you at home,” he says roughly.

*           *           *

“There you go,” says Melissa soothingly, rubbing little circles on Stiles’ back as he dry heaves over the bedpan, “get it all up.”

A minute later, he spits up a mouthful of bile and collapses back against his pillows. “I think - ” he leans forward again, then shakes his head “ - yeah, I’m done.”

Melissa eyes the teen skeptically. “You’re sure?” Stiles nods. “Then I’m going to empty this. Did you get any on yourself this time?”

“I don’t think so?” There’s a pause as he inspects his clothes and bedsheets. “No. Not this time.”

Melissa rinses out the bedpan for the fourth time and thrusts it back into Stiles’ hands. “Here you go,” she tells him. “Hit the call button if you feel sick again, OK?”

Stiles stares at her. “You’re not staying?”

“No, sweetie. I have other patients,” she tells him, one hand on the door.

“Oh.” His little sniffle is unmistakable. “Can you - can you try my dad again?”

Melissa nods, and before she loses her resolve, she leaves. “Poor kid,” she mutters, hustling back to the nurse's station to try the sheriff again. She's not hopeful. She slides behind the desk, a hand on the phone before her butt hits the chair.

“That bad, huh?”

Melissa lets go of the phone, swivels to face Matt. She sighs. “He managed to keep it to the bedpan this time,” she says.

Matt makes a face. They've each had to strip Stiles' bed down once already. “Ouch.”

“Yeah,” Melissa agrees, and she dials John.

To her surprise, the sheriff picks up. He sounds a little out of breath as he says, “Hey, sorry. I was on my way to an armed robbery when we got a call on a three-car pile-up.”

“Please tell me you sent it to County.”

There's a pause. “Sorry?” Melissa groans. John clears his throat. “Is Stiles doing any better?”

She doesn't miss a beat. “He's asleep,” she lies. “Seems to be responding to the antibiotics.”

“Thank God.” There's a pause. “So you don't need me?”

“Nope,” says Melissa as the call light for Stiles' room illuminates. “Good luck, Sheriff.”

There's a muffled, “Thanks.” He hangs up.

“Wow,” Matt says. “That was - I'm not sure if I should trust you, ever. That's a compliment, by the way.” He glances up at the blinking light for 207. “I'll go,” he offers. “It's my turn, anyway.”

That's what they do when they have a difficult patient. But Stiles isn't being difficult, at least not on purpose. It's not his fault he's on more painkillers and antibiotics than his body can handle. “No, no,” says Melissa quickly. “I'll get him.”

Stiles is hunched over the bedpan, heaving. There are tears streaming down his cheeks. “Dad?” he croaks.

Melissa shakes her head. “Do you want some water? Ice chips?”

The teenager retches again. “No. Maybe - I used to get Sprite when I was sick. Could I - ”

Melissa shakes her head again. “No. I can start IV fluids. I think it'll help you feel better.”

Stiles wipes his eyes. “OK,” he says. “Dad's not coming, is he?”

“No, he's not, honey. He can't get away. I'm sure he's - ”

“I want Mom.”

Melissa, her hands in the medicine cabinet, freezes. “Oh, Stiles.”

He's crying again. “Please don't tell Dad I said that. I know he's trying. He's trying so hard. I know I'm a - burden. He already went through it with her. He shouldn't - ”

“No, no, no,” says Melissa soothingly. “You are not a burden, Stiles. Your dad loves you so much. He doesn't think of it as a burden at all.”

Stiles nods once, twice, like he doesn't believe her. “You should go,” he mumbles. “I know you have other patients.”

Melissa is getting really, really good at lying to the Stilinskis. “Actually, my shift is almost over. I'm going to check and see if Matt needs anything else, and then I'll be back. OK?”

“You don't have to - ” Stiles stops. “You’d do that? You’d stay?”

“Of course I would,” she says, giving his shoulder a little rub. Then she heads for the nurse's station. “I need to clock out,” she tells Matt. “He needs - ”

“No, I get it,” the other nurse says. “I've got this. Go, take care of Stiles.”

“You - I owe you,” says Melissa, logging out of her timecard. Matt waves her away. She heads back to Stiles' room. “OK, kiddo. I'm all yours.”

His hand, clammy and covered in sweat, closes around hers. “Thanks, Melissa.”

The next time he has to vomit, Melissa finds herself humming the tune she always used to lull Scott to sleep as a baby. It's another hour before Stiles finally drifts off. She takes it as an opportunity to check his abdomen, make sure all the heaving hasn't popped a suture.

He doesn't sleep for long.

It starts in his hands, fingers clutching at the bedsheets, until the blankets are balled in his fists. His mouth opens and closes. There's a little moan. Melissa reaches over and shakes his shoulder. “Stiles?”

The teen begins to thrash, his heart beating faster and faster. She tries again, more firmly, “Stiles, you have to wake up.”

He does, and he's getting sick all over again. She manages to get the bedpan in front of him just in time. “Hey, hey, hey,” she says, trying to soothe him as he cries. “You're OK. You’re OK. What's wrong?”

Stiles choke-coughs. “I thought - ” he shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “I'm not sure what I thought. Kate - ”

“Kate?” Melissa says sharply.

Stiles shakes his head. “Just a bad dream,” he says quickly. “Can I have that water now?”

“Of course,” Melissa says. She pretends not to notice how badly his hands are shaking. He looks like he wants to ask her something. He doesn't.

He finally settles down about an hour before dawn. He sleeps through shift change, is snoring lightly when the sheriff finally arrives a little after 8 a.m.

“I'm sorry,” John tells her, dropping a kiss on Stiles’ sweaty forehead. He frowns, holds up the back of his hand. “Is he running a fever?”

“Only slightly,” says Melissa, but she’s too exhausted to make small talk with the sheriff. He’ll get an update from Dr. Alexander soon enough. She gives Stiles’ hand another rub, and she drives home, weary. She’s surprised to hear loud, thumping music above her. “Scott?”

No answer.

She tries again, “Scott?”

Nothing.

She finds the teenage alpha in his room, doing pull-ups on the bar above his bathroom. She’s surprised he’s up so early on a Saturday, but as long as he’s quiet she doesn’t care what her son does.

“I’m going to bed,” Melissa says. “Turn the music off.”

That’s when she notices the sweat spraying off Scott’s quaking biceps with every repetition, so much it looks like it’s raining indoors. “Scott, gross,” Melissa chides. “Get down and get - ”

When she reaches for his shoulder, she’s not expecting Scott let go of the bar, turn and grab her wrist with one fluid motion. His eyes are red. She yanks her hand back. “What the hell, Scott?”

He’s panting. “Mom,” he says, eyes back to brown. “I - ”

But she’s just about had it. “Clean up this mess,” she snaps. “Why are you even up? You’re a teenager. You’re supposed to sleep until noon.”

Melissa’s expecting a mumbled apology, not for Scott to set his jaw defiantly. “Yeah, well, it’s kind of hard to sleep when I’m scared out of my mind for Stiles,” he says, crossing his arms.

“You’re scared out of your mind?” Melissa matches his stance. “OK, Scott. Let’s talk about it. Let’s talk about how you’re scared. Never mind that Stiles is _terrified_ , and for good reason. His life as he knew it? That’s over. But yeah, Scott, let’s talk about how _you’re_ scared.”

“That’s not what I - ”

But now that she’s started, Melissa can’t stop. “No? What did you mean, Scott? That it’s hard for you to see Stiles like this? So hard, you don’t visit when he’s awake? Because _bullshit_. I’m calling it. All Stiles has talked about for a month is getting moved to the recovery floor so he’d be able to see you again. All you’ve talked about is how I’m keeping you from your best friend. But now that you can visit, you don’t.”

“I visit,” Scott says defensively.

“You pop by for 20 minutes after school when you know full well he’s going to be asleep. Then you scamper off to - to - you know what? I don’t even know where you’re spending time these days. I would assume with Kira, but then again, I actually see her. She comes by the hospital to play games with Stiles. Did you even know that?”

There’s a pause. “No.”

Melissa shakes her head. She’s so tired. Every bone in her body aches. “I can’t deal with you right now.”

“Mom, wait!”

She pauses, curls her hand around the doorframe. “Scott, I’m sorry. I’m exhausted. I just need to sleep for the next ten hours.”

“How’s he going to be able to keep up?” Scott wants to know. “How’s he going to - ”

“He’s not, Scott,” Melissa interjects. She shuts her bedroom door forcefully behind her. She can still hear Scott in the hall, pacing.

*           *           *

Melissa catches Scott on his way to Stiles’ room and tries frog-marching him back down the hallway. “You’re supposed to be in _school_ ,” she hisses.

“You’re the one who keeps telling me to come when Stiles is awake,” Scott insists, digging in his heels and refusing to budge another inch. They get enough curious looks from people exiting the elevator that his mom unpins his arms. “Besides, it’s only Coach’s class.”

Melissa raises a finger like she’s about to make a point, then curls her hand into a fist. “Let the record show I approve of this display of friendship, but not that you’re skipping class to show it,” she says, punching his shoulder.

“You’re the best mom ever!” Scott calls after her.

He’s about to knock on Stiles’ door when he hears his best friend say, “Can we talk about something else, please?”

Scott, hand hovering, frowns when a woman whose voice he doesn’t recognize replies, “OK, Stiles. But I’m going to make a note to ask you again next week.”

“Whatever.”

The werewolf drops back, presses himself flat to the wall so a nurse can pass. “I’d like to talk about your dad, Stiles,” the woman says. “It says here you used to get anxious every morning when he left for work. Were you scared he wouldn’t come home?”

Scott closes his eyes because he remembers how for months after, Stiles had come to school with red-rimmed eyes, terrified his dad wouldn’t make it through his shift.

“I was nine,” he hears Stiles say, “and my mom had just died. Of course I was scared I’d lose him, too. I thought we were going to talk about something else.”

It hadn’t occurred to Scott that Stiles would be in some sort of therapy. He wonders if he should knock, rescue Stiles. But part of him thinks maybe Stiles asked to talk to someone, and Scott doesn’t want to interrupt that.

“Well, why don’t you tell me about your relationship with your dad now?”

“Now? Like, right now? Or before the bus crash?”

“Are you saying your relationship with your dad has changed since the accident?”

Stiles snorts. “’Course it’s changed,” he mutters. “I don’t know, our relationship is OK. He’s always working, but he’s the sheriff, he kind of has to be. I’d - when I got my license, I started bringing him food at the station. You know, so we’d at least eat dinner together.”

“What about now?”

“Nobody likes hospital food,” Stiles drawls. There’s a long pause. “He wasn’t - there was this night I woke up in the ICU after surgery. There’d been some complications, and I had a tube down my throat, so I couldn’t talk. I kind of - it freaked me the hell out when he wasn’t there. It wasn’t even like I was alone. He’d had someone come sit with me so he could go home and get some sleep. But it still - I was scared he wouldn’t come back when I asked for him.”

“Did he come back?”

“Yeah.”

“What did he do?”

“Uh, he apologized. Then he called the nurse.”

“And?” the woman prompts.

“I got more drugs and passed out,” Stiles says flatly. “Dad was there when I woke up a couple days later. I still couldn’t talk because my throat was so scratchy, but he was really great. Brought me ice chips, held my hand, kept telling me how much he loves me.”

“What about now?”

“What do you mean, what about now?”

“Do you feel like your dad’s been supportive of you in your recovery?”

Scott can hear Stiles’ pulse quicken. “You don’t get to do the thing,” Stiles says quietly.

“Do what thing?”

“You don’t get to judge him. He’s trying. He wasn’t - after Mom, he never wanted to step foot in a hospital again. It’s hard for him to come here each day and see me like this. But I get it. I was supposed to take care of him when he got old. Now he’s stuck taking care of me.”

“Stiles - ”

“No, it’s cool,” Stiles continues. “And maybe it’s hard for my dad, but some other people have been really great. Surprisingly great. Uh, Derek. Lydia and Kira. And my friend Scott’s mom is always here. You know Melissa. I just wish - ”

Scott knocks, cracks the door open. “Hey,” he says uncomfortably. “I can come - ”

“No,” Stiles interrupts. “We were just finishing up. Right, Crystal?”

The woman - Crystal, apparently - studies Scott for a good thirty seconds before she says, “I think so, Stiles. We’ll talk again on Thursday, OK?”

Stiles nods. “OK.” She squeezes his shoulder before she leaves. The door’s not even closed when Stiles blurts, “Don’t you have, you know, class?”

“Does Coach’s count?” Scott asks, his lip twisting into a half smile. He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Uh, how are you?”

“I’m - ” Stiles shakes his head. “You can come sit down. Unless - I understand if you need to get back to school.”

Scott recognizes he’s being offered an out. “No, I want to see you,” he insists, taking a step forward. He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, hopes he sounds casual. “Who was that?”

“Crystal’s the hospital counselor,” Stiles says. He adds, “They’re making me see her. It’s not like - I know they’re not going to let me out of here until I talk.”

Because Stiles is actually awake, the rails on his bed are down. Scott makes a split-second decision, eases back on the thin mattress. There’s plenty of space for the alpha with Stiles’ left leg gone, but Scott keeps one foot planted firmly on the floor. “Uh, so Mom says your infection cleared up,” he says awkwardly, trying to look anywhere but Stiles’ stump. It’s so short. Scott’s certain Stiles’ fingertips would clear it if he stood.

Of course, Stiles notices. “It’s not so bad,” he lies. “Soon as it’s healed, they’re going to fit me for a high tech prosthesis. It’ll be even better than the hand Luke got after Vader - " his lips twist into a wry smile " - still haven’t seen Star Wars, have you?”

“No.”

“We _have_ to change that,” says Stiles. He bites his nail. “It’s really good to see you, man.”

For a minute, their hearts beat in tandem, a shade too fast. Then Scott says, “God, Stiles, I’m so sorry.”

Stiles’ Adam’s apple bobs. He licks his lips. “Scott, it’s - ”

“No,” Scott interrupts. “I’m not talking about the bus crash. I mean, I’m sorry that it happened. But it shouldn’t have - _I_ should have been here a long time ago.”

“You don’t have to - you don’t owe me an apology.”

“Yeah, I do,” Scott insists. Stiles is sitting with his hands folded together in his lap. Scott grabs one of them. “You’re my best friend. You needed me, and I wasn’t there. I hate this. I hate that I can’t do anything to ease your pain.”

“You sure about that?” Stiles asks.

Scott frowns. Then he looks down at his dark veins as Stiles’ discomfort spiders up his arm. “Is it always like this?” he asks, wincing as it hits his shoulder.

“No, no, it’s - ” Stiles sighs. “Yeah,” he admits. “It is.”

They sit in silence for a long time, Scott’s hand wrapped around Stiles’, trying to take the edge off for his friend. “I do have to get back to school. But I’ll come tonight, OK? Mom says you’re usually awake for dinner. What time is that?”

Stiles scratches his chin. “Uh, maybe around six? My dad’ll be here, too.”

Scott doesn’t want to intrude. “Maybe there’s another - ”

“No,” says Stiles. “It’ll help defuse the tension.”

“Tension?” Scott repeats, trying to play dumb.

Stiles pulls his hand away, forces a smile. “C’mon, Scott. There’s no use pretending you didn’t pick up the end of my session with Crystal with your wolf ears.” Stiles crooks his index fingers into little triangles above his head.

Scott smiles in spite of himself. “Hug it out?”

“Uh, rain check?” Stiles says, hunching his right shoulder like there’s something he doesn’t want Scott to see. “I’m a little sore, honestly.”

That’s when Scott remembers. The ostomy bag. Right. “Tonight, I promise,” he says, holding up his fist. Stiles’ knuckles knock against his. He slides off the edge of the bed, pauses in the doorway. “We’re good?”

“Yeah,” says Stiles, and this time, his smile doesn’t look forced. “We’re good.”

***           *           ***

“One more, Stiles,” Bridget goads, the khaki-clad physical therapist working with his kid three times a week. She slaps the hospital bed and flashes what John’s sure is supposed to be an encouraging smile. “This time, you’re going from the wheelchair to - ”

“Yeah, I got that,” Stiles cuts in, still panting from the last transfer. He takes a deep breath, plants his right foot on the floor, shakes his head. “I can’t. I don’t have another one in me.”

“Sure you do.”

John clears his throat. “Maybe it’s time to call it a day,” he suggests.

This earns him a glare from both his son and the physical therapist. “Sheriff, Stiles needs to be able to transfer independently from his bed to his wheelchair. I can’t clear him to go home until he can.”

“Dad, it’s fine,” Stiles pipes, though he sounds spent. “One more?”

“One more,” says Bridget, sliding her hands under Stiles’ thighs. “You know what to do. Slide forward. Now plant your sound foot - good. OK, we’re going to stand now. Push up - ”

Stiles’ arms quake. He gets about three inches off the chair before his knee gives way and he collapses. “I’m sorry,” he tells her, blinking back tears. “I don’t think I - ”

“You have to,” Bridget interrupts.

“Please,” Stiles begs. “It’s pulling at my stitches.”

John has to leave the room. He can’t do it anymore. He can’t watch his kid cry another tear.

Bridget joins him a few minutes later, crossed arms obscuring the Beacon Hills Rehabilitation Center logo on her polo. “Stiles made it back into his bed,” she says flatly.

John rubs his mouth. “He’s in pain,” he pleads.

“I know,” says Bridget, not unkindly. “But if we wait until he’s not, he won’t even get a crack at a normal life. Is there - maybe there’s someone else who can be with him during sessions.”

This time, it’s John’s voice that’s flat. “No,” he says. “There’s no one else.”

Stiles is still sitting on the edge of the bed, tongue between his teeth, trying to wrestle what’s left of his leg into a tight-fitting elastic shrinker. He looks up at his dad, blinks. “Hey.”

“Bridget says you nailed that last transfer,” John says, rubbing his knuckles affectionately over Stiles’ shoulder. “Want some help, or is that against the rules?”

Stiles stops trying to pull on the sock. “OK,” he mumbles, handing the shrinker to his dad and tucking his hands under his arms.

John slides the sleeve over Stiles’ stump - Bridget keeps telling him not to call it that - before getting tripped up. “Now what?”

“Uh, you twist it,” says Stiles, and after a moment’s hesitation, he pulls his hands out from his armpits and shows his dad how to flip the rest of the stretchy sock over his residual limb, then secure the whole contraption around his waist. Stiles is down to a single still-healing incision, no ostomy bag. He pulls his shirt down quickly.

John wets his lips with his tongue. “Son - ”

And he pulls Stiles into a tight hug. His kid’s skin and bones, but Stiles manages to thump his dad heartily on the back. “You’re going to crush me,” he complains wearily.

But he doesn’t let go, either.

*           *           *

The knock is hesitant, a quick tap of knuckles followed by the scrape of fingernails on the hospital room door. Stiles frowns because the pack usually just barges in. “Uh, hello?” he asks, straining his neck like he'll actually be able to see out the little window.

Malia's just about the last person he expects to see. Immediately, the werecoyote shoves her hands in the pockets of her too-short shorts. “Hey,” she says, biting her lip.

Stiles stares at her, wide-eyed, before lapsing into a momentary panic where he checks his worthiness to receive visitors. Stump covered? Check. Hoodie zipped? Check. It hasn't even been that long since his last bath. “Uh, hi.”

“Can I - ” Malia jerks her head toward the chair on Stiles' right.

“Of course,” Stiles says quickly. He laces his fingers together and stares at his hands while she takes a seat. “How - how have you been?”

There's a pause. "I've been - " the werecoyote clears her throat “ - I hear you get out of here soon.”

Tuesday. They're sending Stiles home on Tuesday, two days from now and almost three months since the accident. He nods. “Yeah, finally.”

Malia is staring at the thin hospital blanket covering Stiles' lap, tracing the outline of his stump with her eyes. “I should have come sooner,” she mumbles.

He shrugs. “You're here now.”

“You - ”

“What?”

The werecoyote's cheeks flush. “It's just - why do you smell like blood?”

Stiles catches himself before he winces, reminds himself Malia doesn't know better. “I had surgery last week,” he tells her. “The incision’s still healing.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Stiles bites his thumbnail. Malia slides her hands under her thighs, rocking forward slightly in the hard plastic chair. She shivers.

“You're cold,” says Stiles, remembering Eichen House before realizing he shouldn’t. He _really_ shouldn’t. “You should move - that chair's right in front of a vent.”

When she stands up, he's expecting her to drag the chair with her. Instead, she circles the bed, eyes darting to the empty space below Stiles' stump. He thinks she'll ask first, but of course she just slides back on the mattress. “Is this OK?”

It's not OK, it's so not OK, she's way too close -

“It's fine,” Stiles lies.

The hand she drops to his right thigh is surprisingly gentle. “I was really scared,” she tells him. “When Derek called to tell me you'd been hurt - I was really scared.”

Stiles stops playing with the strings of his hoodie. “You were?”

The werecoyote is chewing on her bottom lip again. “Of course I was scared,” she admits. “I was scared you would die when the last thing I said to you was how much I hated you.”

Stiles blinks. “Malia, it was the full moon, you - ”

“I don't hate you,” she interrupts. “I don't hate you - I like you. And I'm glad you dragged me out of the woods.”

Stiles isn't expecting the apology, so he's still staring at her, mouth slightly agape, when she leans in coyote-quick and kisses him.

He jerks back. “What are you doing?”

“I thought - ” Malia asks, mortified. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

And she accidentally elbows him, hard, in his still-healing sutures in her mad scramble to get off the bed. He knows he should say something, stop her, but his eyes are watering. He chokes, “Malia, wait!”

Too late. She's already out the door.

* * *

 

**Sheriff files latest lawsuit in lacrosse bus tragedy**

By Olivia Nelson, Staff Writer

Three more lawsuits were filed Tuesday against the Beacon Hills Unified School District alleging negligence in the rollover bus crash that killed seven high school lacrosse players.

But in a shocking twist, one comes from Beacon County's top law enforcement officer, Sheriff John Stilinski. He's seeking millions of dollars on behalf of his son, K. J. Stilinski, 18.

Sophomore midfielder Jack Winters, 16, said everyone on the team called the sheriff's son by his nickname, “Stiles.”

“Stiles was hurt pretty bad in the crash,” Winters said. “We’ve all been pulling for him.”

According to court documents, K.J. “Stiles” Stilinski was partially ejected from the bus. His left leg had to be amputated.

But while some of the younger Stilinski's teammates feel the lawsuit is justified, the parent of another injured student is speaking out.

Jennifer Chambers' son Brandon, 17, broke both his legs in the crash. She says he's been in a wheelchair for the past three months and will need physical therapy to recover from his injuries.

“No one cares about what happened to Brandon because his dad and I aren't important,” Chambers said. “We don't make a lot of money, and we were hoping lacrosse would get him a college scholarship. Now it’s not just how are we going to pay for college, but how are we going to pay these medical bills?”

Chambers said she doesn't have a problem with the sheriff suing the local school district, but she said the sheriff should have filed suit with the parents of other injured students.

“I think the sheriff was allowed to file his own lawsuit because of who he is, absolutely,” said Chambers. “I don't think that's fair when the judge is making the other families of injured students combine their lawsuits.”

Chambers said her family doesn’t have insurance. She’s worried the families of the injured students will have to split whatever they can recover so many ways it won’t cover Brandon’s medical bills.

Reached by phone, Butte County Judge Marcia Grigsby-Butler would not give a reason for her decision to allow the Stilinskis to file their own suit, other than to say the sheriff's son had “significant” injuries.

Grigsby-Butler has allowed the families of deceased students to file individual lawsuits against both the school district and West Coast Transfer Co.

But there’s one person who won’t stay silent: former Beacon Hills Councilman Wyatt Brown, who’s running against John Stilinski in the November election.

“Now, I feel bad for Stilinski,” said Brown in an exclusive interview with The Chronicle, “but I think if he's in bad enough financial shape he has to sue the local school system, well, he's got too much going on at home to be an effective leader.”

In an e-mailed statement, Beacon Hills Unified Superintendent Michael Magee wrote that while his “thoughts and prayers were with everyone impacted by this terrible tragedy,” he would not discuss pending litigation.

Repeated calls to the Beacon Hill Sheriff’s Office for comment were not returned.

* * *

 

Stiles falls asleep on the drive home from the hospital. His head lolls first against his shoulder, then against the passenger window, each hot breath fogging up the glass. He’s looking ashy again, like the trip down the elevator and out the door to the car was too much excitement for one day.

Still, John’s ready to have him home, ready to put ten weeks at Beacon Hills Memorial behind them. At least until he pulls into the drive and remembers the stairs, two steps into the house from the garage.

An entire flight between the kitchen and Stiles’ bedroom.

John scrambles out of the car, shuts the door quietly, careful not to wake Stiles. Scott’s right behind him. The werewolf pulls into the driveway, kills the engine on his dirt bike.

“What's wrong, Sheriff?” Scott asks, pulling off his helmet and trying to smooth his hair.

John joins Scott in the driveway, glances up at Stiles’ window. “Stiles' bedroom is upstairs,” he says matter-of-factly.

Scott frowns. “Yeah,” he agrees slowly, and John watches as realization dawns. Apparently none of them had given where Stiles would sleep any thought. “You guys still have that bed in the guest room, right?”

John tries to remember the last time anyone slept in there. Not in years. “Sheets,” he finds himself murmuring because hell, he has no idea where those might be. He pops the trunk, fiddles with the wheelchair while Scott gently shakes Stiles awake. John watches his son's eyes flicker over to the empty garage spot, but fortunately Stiles doesn't ask about the Jeep.

“I could carry him,” Scott offers half-heartedly, eyes flickering from Stiles to the steps. John expects Stiles to pipe in, remind his friend he's sitting right there. But Stiles lets this go, too, chewing on his thumbnail.

John clears his throat. “I'm not sure that'll be necessary, Scott,” he says, giving Stiles' shoulder a squeeze.

They end up backing the wheelchair up the steps one stair at a time, Scott tugging it up by the handles while John makes sure Stiles doesn’t fall out. The teen mumbles his thanks.

“Are you OK here for a minute?” John asks his son. Stiles nods. “Scott, can you give me a hand in the guest room?”

He peels back the floral comforter, hopes he'll find sheets underneath. No such luck. There's just the old, peach-colored mattress that had once been on his and Claudia's bed. “Shit,” he mutters.

“I'll go check the linen closet,” Scott volunteers, and he comes thundering back downstairs a minute later, navy sheets in hand. “Will these work?”

To John’s surprise, it’s Stiles who answers. “No,” he says from the door, smoothing his palms on the wheels of his chair. John can already tell the wheelchair is going to be a tight fit. “That’s the spare set for my bed. The guest bed’s what, a double?”

Scott’s face falls. John takes the sheets from the werewolf. “I’ll go grab my other set. It might be a little big, but it’ll work.”

Of course, after five minutes of searching, John remembers his spare set is wadded up in the laundry room. He sighs, wanders back downstairs empty-handed. Stile is staring at the jar of pennies on the kitchen counter, his face screwed up in concentration, like there's something he's trying to remember. Scott’s chipping at a dried crust on the kitchen counter with his nail.

“What is it, son?”

Stiles’ head jerks up. “What?” he asks. “Uh, nothing. So I’m moving into the guest room?”

John glances back at the stairs. They look impossibly tall. “Is that OK?” he asks, trying to sound casual.

Stiles shrugs. “I mean, I figured as much.”

“Did you find the sheets?” Scott asks.

The sheriff forces a smile. “Just remembered,” he says, “laundry room.”

“Do you want me to go start a load?”

“No, I can do it.”

The alpha’s eyes search John’s, a silent plea for something to do. “At least - I could pick up food?”

John's about to tell the werewolf not to bother, that they can fend for themselves, but it's not true. He scribbles down a to-go order on the back of a napkin, double-checking it against the list of foods Stiles isn't allowed to eat, pulls a twenty from his wallet. “Thanks, Scott.”

“You want me to swing by my house, grab some video games?” Scott asks Stiles. “I know I have a couple of titles that weren’t out - ”

“Maybe tomorrow?” Stiles interrupts. “I’m kind of tired, man.”

Scott looks disappointed, but he gives Stiles an enthusiastic fist-bump on his way out the door that leaves Stiles rubbing his knuckles. John waits until he hears Scott’s bike turn the corner.

“You need to let Scott know when he’s overdoing it, Stiles,” John chides. “He doesn’t know his own strength.”

“He means well,” Stiles mumbles, again palming the wheelchair rims. “Uh, maybe I could go lie on the couch for awhile? Until the bed’s ready?”

“Of course,” John says, wheeling Stiles toward the living room. “I’m going to throw in those sheets, then maybe we can watch the game.”

Stiles shrugs. “OK,” he says.

John’s about to help Stiles transfer to the sofa when he hears it, the faint click-clack on the sidewalk, the useless pumping of the doorbell that hasn't worked in years. He drops the arm he had around Stiles, goes to peek through the blinds. There’s a news van in the driveway.

Just his luck, the reporter notices him in the window. “Sheriff Stilinski!” she calls, voice muffled through the glass. “Sheriff, we'd love to talk to your son - ”

John sighs, hauls open the front door. Margaret. He’s at least half-sure her name’s Margaret. “Listen, Margaret - ”

“Margot,” she corrects, and a second later there's a camera pointed at his face. “Sheriff, how does it feel to have your son home from the hospital, three long months after the bus crash?”

The sheriff crosses his arms. “You need to get off my property,” he says, careful not to raise his voice.

“How is he doing?” Margot presses. “Can you explain why you’re suing the school district? Do you have a number in mind?”

“No comment,” says John, closing the door in one smooth motion. He pinches his nose, calls Parrish. “I need a camera crew removed from my front porch,” he tells the deputy. “Quietly, if at all possible. This can’t get out to the other stations.”

There’s a pause. “I won’t put anything out on the scanner, Sheriff,” Parrish says reluctantly, “but sir, you should know, they’ve been calling all day.”

John hangs up the call, turns, almost collides with Stiles’ wheelchair. “You’re not supposed to be doing that,” he chides.

Stiles doesn't take his hands from the wheels. “I mean, would it help to just - you know, give them what they want?”

“No,” says John. “Absolutely not.”

And he pushes Stiles back in the living room, turns the TV way up in hopes of drowning out Margot's insistent knock. It's Stiles who grabs the remote from his father and switches it off.

“How’d they figure it out?”

John plays dumb. “Figure what out?”

“That it was me. That I was the kid under the bus.”

Stiles’ words trigger the sharp, brutal mental image John tries to avoid most days. “I filed the lawsuit last week.”

“Oh.”

John grimaces. “Believe me, Stiles, if there was another way - ”

“No, I get it,” Stiles interrupts, pushing the power button on the remote again. “There are bills to pay.”

John had thought to move the bills into the study, away from Stiles’ prying eyes. Yet he hadn’t given where his amputee kid would sleep a second thought. Which reminds him. “Let me start those sheets,” he says, patting Stiles’ arm as he stands. His back twinges. “Hey, the Mets are up.”

The smile Stiles manages looks forced. The teen closes his eyes.

Of course, the sheriff finds a load of towels he’d forgotten about starting to mold in the washer. He peels the stiff, crusty fabric from the drum and throws them back in the basket. He’s no sooner stuffed the sheets in the machine than he realizes they’re out of laundry detergent. He has to call Scott and ask the werewolf to buy more.

By the time John returns to the living room, Stiles is sleeping, the Mets are trailing and a second news crew has joined the first outside. He sighs.

*           *           *

“I don’t really need your help,” Stiles mumbles, tucking his hands under his armpits as his dad runs him a bath.

The sheriff rolls up his sleeve, sticks his hand under the running tap to check the temperature. “Stiles, don’t be ridiculous,” he chides. “It’s just a bath. I’ve helped you take a million.”

It’s really, really not the same. Stiles bites his lip. “I’m not a little kid anymore.”

John squeezes Stiles’ shoulder, leaving behind a damp handprint. “I know, son. Let’s just get this over with, OK?”

Finally, Stiles nods. “Yeah, OK,” he mutters. He lets his dad steer the wheelchair closer to the tub. Eyes downcast, he shucks his thin t-shirt.

For a horrible second, the sheriff just stares at the patchwork of scars knitting together Stiles’ abdomen. John clears his throat. “Swing your leg over the edge of the tub,” he says quietly. “On three. One, two, _three_.”

Red-faced, the sheriff lifts Stiles just enough to get him settled onto the bath bench. He hands his son a towel to spread over his lap. Stiles shimmies out of his boxers, pauses before peeling back the gauze covering his most recent incision. “Really, Dad. I can handle it from here.”

“Melissa walked me through - ” John breaks off. “Let me go get you some more bandages.”

Stiles can feel his cheeks burning as he rinses the wound with saline solution. He washes up quickly, refusing his dad’s offers to help. “Uh, how do you want to do this?” he asks, watching the soapy water swirl down the drain. The air conditioning is cold on his wet skin. He shivers.  His dad wraps him in a towel. “Thanks.”

“Wrap your arms around my neck,” John says, his face set in a grimace. “All right, let’s get - ”

But with a strangled cry, the sheriff lets go of Stiles and clutches his back.

“Dad,” Stiles says, his heart hammering. “Dad - ”

“It’s fine,” John wheezes, though it’s clearly not. Groaning, he tries to straighten. He can’t.

Tentatively, Stiles asks, “Did you just throw your back out?”

There’s a pause before John, wincing, says, “Maybe.”

Stiles bites his nail. There’s literally nothing he can do from the bathtub. “Dad, you should sit down. Actually, you should give me your phone.”

That’s how he knows it’s bad - his dad doesn’t protest. John just presses his phone into Stiles’ outstretched hand and half-sits, half-collapses on the edge of the tub.

Stiles calls Melissa, who picks up on the second ring. “Hey stranger,” she says breezily. “Are you and Stiles settling in - ”

“Dad threw his back out,” Stiles interrupts.

“Stiles? Is that you?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you just say - your dad threw his back out?”

“He was trying to get me out of the tub,” Stiles says flatly. “Do you want to talk to him?”

But John shakes his head, mouths “no” when his son tries to pass him the phone. Stiles bites his lip, pressing the phone between his ear and shoulder. “We need help,” he says finally.

“OK, stay where you are,” Melissa tells Stiles, who snorts because they couldn't move if they wanted to. “I’ll be there in twenty.”

“It’s true,” Stiles says when Melissa hangs up and it’s just him and his dad in the too-quiet bathroom. “We need help.”

“I know,” John grunts.

Melissa arrives with Scott in fewer than the promised twenty minutes. “I thought we could use some reinforcements,” she says as the alpha hovers awkwardly in the doorway. “Scott, take the sheriff to the couch, OK?”

Stiles wishes he could unsee the pity on his friend’s face as Melissa helps his dad stagger to his feet. “He’s the one who’s hurt,” Stiles points out once Scott’s out the door with the sheriff.

“I figured you wouldn’t want Scott’s help,” says Melissa, unwrapping the cold, damp towel and helping Stiles into a clean t-shirt. “How’d it happen?”

Stiles shrugs. “I think you know,” he says, glad to be clothed. With Melissa’s help, he transfers back to his wheelchair. “He has a bad back.”

Melissa sighs, takes a seat on the edge of the tub. “I’ve been worried something like this would happen, but your dad’s been adamant he doesn’t need our help.”

“Right,” Stiles says uncomfortably.

Scott returns. “Uh, he’s asking if he can put ice on it,” he mumbles, eyes downcast.

“I’ll go see about him,” says Melissa, rising to her feet. She pauses to drop a kiss to Stiles’ head, then leaves the two boys alone.

There’s a long pause before Scott forces a smile and asks, “You probably want to get out of the bathroom, huh?”

“God yes,” Stiles breaths. But his relief is short-lived when he remembers how hard it is to get the wheelchair through the narrow bathroom door. Scott accidentally runs Stiles knee-first into the doorframe. Scott swears. Stiles’ eyes water.

“Stiles, I’m so - ”

“It’s fine,” Stiles insists, even though he knows his heart will betray him. “Everything’s fine.”

*           *           *

“You’re jumpy tonight,” Stiles declares, throwing down his pencil. It rolls to the edge of the TV tray he’s using to do homework, teeters for a second, then plummets to the ground. “Oops,” he says guiltily.

Derek lets the curtain fall back into place before crossing the room to pick up the pencil. “Am not,” he snaps as another firecracker explodes in the distance. “Get back to work.”

Stiles just stares at the werewolf curiously, like he’d rather study Derek than the Cold War. “I don’t know what you’re so upset about,” he says, flipping through his textbook. “They’re only fireworks.”

Derek’s not about to tell Stiles every explosion reminds him of Kate, of her fondness for guns, of the fire she set. “It’s not July 4.”

“So? Fireworks sales are legal June 28 to July 6 in Beacon County,” Stiles points out, like he can’t believe Derek doesn’t have this piece of California code memorized. It occurs to Derek any other year the teen would be out blowing stuff up with Scott. “It’s always like this.”

“Not out where we lived,” Derek says grumpily.

Stiles snorts. “Well, no. I think shooting off fireworks in a heavily wooded area is, generally speaking, frowned upon. But you guys never went out to - ”

“It hurts my ears,” Derek interrupts, dropping back into the sheriff’s chair and picking up his book. He’s starting to regret ever agreeing to stay with Stiles during his dad’s first shift back after several days of Melissa-ordered rest.

“That’s one of the books you were reading in the hospital,” says Stiles after about 30 seconds.

“So?”

“So you’re a fast reader, which makes me think it must be boring if you haven’t finished it yet.”

Derek bristles. “It’s not boring,” he says. “It’s Dante’s _Commedia_.”

Stiles blinks. “The Divine Comedy?”

“Yes,” Derek huffs. “In the original Italian.”

The teen makes a face. “It’s on our reading list for fall. It sounds awful.”

Derek’s really not in the mood to discuss 14th-century literature with Stiles. “It’s not,” he says tersely. “Don’t you have homework to do?”

This time, Stiles is quiet for a full minute. “So do you just read slower in Italian?”

It’s been a while since Derek has wanted to strangle Stiles. The urge feels familiar as it rises up. “It’s not my first language.”

“I’m guessing not your second, either,” says Stiles. “How many languages can you speak?”

Derek’s fluent in English, Spanish, Italian and French, reads Latin, knows a little Chinatown Cantonese. He tells Stiles, “A few.”

“Did you just like - ”

But he’s interrupted by an explosion in the distance so loud even Stiles jumps a little. Derek drops his book.

“Sparkler bomb,” says Stiles knowingly. “I think Scott’s still got a scar from one we detonated the summer between seventh and eighth grade.”

Derek’s heart is already racing from the noise and the faint, pungent smell of gunpowder. It speeds up when he remembers what Stiles had said while pinned beneath the bus, about the accident being his comeuppance for all the time his antics had gotten Scott hurt.

Stiles is staring at him again. “Seriously, man, are you OK?”

“Do your homework,” Derek snaps over the _pop pop pop_ of fireworks in the distance.

*           *           *

“What can I get you?” the bartender asks, resting her elbows on the bar and affording Peter a good, long look at her sagging breasts. His nose wrinkles involuntarily. He supposes she was pretty, once. His eyes sweep the wall of whiskey behind her. It’s woefully inadequate. “We’ve got a red, white and blue special going. It’s a shot of Fireball and a can of - ”

“I’ll take a Johnnie Walker Black, neat,” Peter interrupts, tossing a twenty on the bar.

The bartender arches an eyebrow as she pours his drink. “Not exactly your crowd,” she says, sliding his drink over and ringing it in.

Peter eyes the other Sunday night patrons, mostly washed-up Beacon Hills jocks in their fifth semester at the local community college. “No,” he says. She throws down his change. Peter shakes his head.

“You’re sure?” she asks.

Peter doesn’t say anything. He takes a long, slow sip of his scotch, waiting for her to pocket the wad of bills. “I’m looking for someone,” he says.

The bartender snorts. “Of course you are,” she says. But she leans forward just the same. “I’ll play, so long as she doesn’t have a restraining order against you.”

“Nothing like that,” Peter says silkily. “Do you remember the old Burger Barn?”

“Sure, I used to work there, actually. At least, until it went under. But that was what, ’96? No, ’97. Yeah, it definitely closed - ” the bartender breaks off. Sharply, she asks, “Why do I get the sense you already knew that?”

Peter smiles, puts another twenty on the bar. The bartender reaches for it, but before she can take it, he pins it down with one finger. “Did you ever work with an Eleanor Taylor?”

The bartender glares at him. “You’re looking for Ellie,” she says flatly.

Sometimes it calms Peter to imagine snapping the necks of humans who annoy him. “Is that going to be a problem?” he says, picturing the bartender slumped over the bar, one of her leathery, ham-hock arms hanging limply from her neon-pink tank top.

“Only if you’re trying to find her,” the bartender says with a shrug. “Ellie took off one day and never came back. I don’t know anyone in Beacon Hills who’s seen her in years. A real shame. She was one of the best servers I ever trained. Real smart girl.”

Peter takes his finger off the cash. “When you say take off - ”

This bill get tucked into the bartender’s cleavage. “She vanished. She had some boyfriend at the time, always used to talk about him, about leaving Beacon Hills and getting away from her parents. So when she stopped showing up for work, all the other girls figured she finally left.”

There’s something about the way she says _all the other girls_ that Peter finds unusual. “You don’t think so.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

The bartender’s eyes dart greedily to Peter’s pocket, but he doesn’t take out his wallet. She sighs. “So I was the manager, right? The other waitresses, they all had high school boyfriends who’d take up tables and annoy the customers who actually tipped. But not Ellie. I never saw her boyfriend. For the longest time, I thought she’d made him up.”

“Do you still?”

“Why do you care?”

Peter drains his glass. “Because I was her boyfriend,” he says, disappearing into a crowd of rowdy teenagers drinking on their fake IDs. He smirks, listening to the rattled bartender take their orders.

It’s a muggy July night, miserable and humid, but Peter lights a cigarette anyway. He thinks about Ellie Taylor - or, more specifically, her shapely legs, and how they’d wrapped around him in that stupid 300RX he’d driven when he was 18. As he listens to the bartender tell the bouncer to call the police if he shows up again, he knows he’s found Malia’s mother.

“Don’t worry,” Peter mutters under his breath, ducking down the nearest alley as the bouncer steps out to look for him, “I won’t be back.”

The alley reeks of rotting meat. Peter throws down his cigarette, not bothering to stomp it out.

He knows full well what happens next. “Well?” he calls. “Are you going to show yourself?”

The berserker steps out of the shadows, bone-clad chest heaving. It takes a swipe at Peter that’s easy enough to dodge. “You don’t want me,” the werewolf snaps. “Not when you can have the alpha.”

The beast stops mid-swing. It’s listening.

“That’s right,” says Peter, lips curling into a smile. “If you let me go, I’ll tell you where to find Scott McCall.”

*           *           *

“C’mon, man,” Scott pleads, “Stiles’ dad is supposed to be off in two hours. I’ll owe you one.”

Derek bites back, “You already owe me one.”

“Fine, I’ll owe you two,” Scott agrees. “Just - I’m exhausted, OK?” He’d spent the day helping Deaton at the annual low-cost spay and neuter clinic, and the thought of heading over to the Stilinskis’ to dole out medicine is more than he can take. “Please, Derek - ”

“Just so you know, I’m not doing it for you,” Derek interrupts, and he ends the call.

Scott holds his phone for a minute, debating whether to head over to Stiles’ as promised. He slings a leg over his bike and, after deciding he needs a night off, heads home. He’ll go over to Stiles’ tomorrow, help out after his friend gets done with PT.

Werewolf strength or no, taking care of Stiles for the last several days has the alpha feeling drained. As he rides, all he can see is the big, color-coded medication table his mom taped to the Stilinskis’ fridge the second time Scott forgot to give Stiles his painkillers.

He’s crossing the bridge when he hears a faint clicking in the distance. Scott chalks it up to fireworks at first. He’s been hearing them hiss and crack all day, jumping at the ones clearly in violation of California’s “safe and sane” law and endlessly amusing Deaton.

He frowns. The alpha’s never heard of fireworks that click before.

Scott glances back just in time to see the beast gaining on him. He revs the engine, tries to get the bike to accelerate. He’s not fast enough. The thing lunges, forcing Scott to lay down. He skids across the asphalt, shredding his motorcycle jacket and a little skin. Already healing, he springs up, baring his teeth.

The berserker wastes no time. It charges, clawing at Scott with one bony arm. Blood sprays from a deep cut on the alpha’s chest. He howls, swinging wildly and somehow managing to connect with the bear skull on the warrior’s head. The bone cracks. Unfortunately, so does Scott’s hand, forcing him to drop back.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Scott mutters, clutching his broken hand and trying to kick the beast’s legs out from under it. The berserker grabs the alpha’s foot, sends Scott flying face-first to the ground. He lifts one massive boot, rests it on Scott’s neck.

The red SUV swerves to a stop inches from him. Scott’s barely registered what’s happening when he hears the shotgun blast, which sends the berserker stumbling back. The alpha gasps for air, picking himself off the pavement.

Argent fires again. “Get in!” he bellows.

Scott doesn’t have to be told twice. He dives into the back seat, slamming the door closed in the berserker’s face. Tires squealing, the SUV takes off with the beast still in pursuit. “When did you - ”

“Did it get you?” Argent cuts in, running a red light and almost causing an accident at the next intersection.

The alpha pulls himself into a sitting position. Sure enough, the blood bleeding from his chest is tar-black. “Yeah,” he coughs. “Shit, Deaton’s out of - ”

“Here,” says Argent, tossing a black duffel bag from the passenger seat into Scott’s lap. “Try the front pocket, I think I have a bezoar. It looks a little like a pebble.”

But Scott already knows what he’s looking for. His arms feel like lead, but he still manages to push the stone under his tongue. For a minute, his body feels like ice. Then he starts to heal.

“Thanks,” Scott says weakly, spitting out the now-grey stone.

Argent is slowing down. “I think I lost it,” he says. “That’s the thing that attacked Derek?”

Scott twists his body around to look out the window. The road is deserted. “I think so, yeah.”

“It’s a berserker, all right,” says Argent grimly. “Do you know where Derek is?”

Scott’s stomach turns, but it has nothing to do with the near-fatal poisoning. “Yeah,” he says uncomfortably. “He’s with Stiles.”

“The sheriff’s house, that’s where? Over on Woodbine?”

“Yeah,” says Scott, shucking the tattered remains of his jacket. He pulls his phone from his pocket. The screen’s shattered. “It’s after Derek, isn’t it?”

“It’s possible,” says Argent, making a U-turn so sharp Scott slides across the seat. “Even if it’s not, it could be indiscriminately hunting werewolves.”

“Can we get there first?” Scott wants to know. “With Derek’s help, can we stop it?”

When Argent doesn’t answer, Scott assumes the answer is _no_. There’s a long pause as they hurtle too-fast to the south side of town where Stiles lives. “And to answer your question, I got back last night.”

“And you just happened - ”

“No. I picked up its scent in the alley behind the condo and tracked it back to Deaton’s. It must have just missed you.”

Scott’s skin is still tingling where the berserker slashed him. “Yeah,” he echoes. “It must have just missed me.” He just hopes it isn’t en route to Stiles’ house.

Nothing seems out of place on the Stilinskis’ quiet street, but Scott’s not taking any chances. He hits the driveway running. It’s not until he bursts through the door, shirt in tatters, that he realizes what an entrance he’s making.

Stiles is sitting on the couch, a stack of books open on the TV tray in front of him. “Scotty,” he says, eyes wide, “what happened to you?”

Derek puts it together much faster. “It came after you,” he says gruffly, “didn’t it?”

Scott nods. “I wouldn’t have gotten away unless - ”

As if on cue, Argent enters, armed with a semi-automatic. “Derek,” he says evenly, nodding at the other werewolf, who glares. “And Stiles, how are you?”

Stiles blinks, then turns to Scott. “What the hell is going on?”

“Uh, there’s a thing,” Scott says vaguely. “Derek, can we talk to you for a second?”

The look on Derek’s face says clearly he’s not having this conversation in front of Stiles. “Sit tight, OK?” he tells the teen, beckoning Scott and Argent into the kitchen.

Stiles rages as they file out of the living room. “Oh yeah, tell the gimp to sit tight, really funny, Derek. What are you talking about that I can’t - ”

“He hates it when people say that,” Scott says quietly, once they’re out of earshot.

Derek’s nostrils flare. “Why are you here, Scott?”

The alpha frowns. Isn’t it obvious? “I thought it would come after you next,” Scott says. “Two against one, those are better odds.”

Derek’s clenching his fists tightly. Scott knows what that means: claws. “Yeah? Or you led it _right to_ the weakest member of the pack.”

“What, Stiles? What would it want with - ”

“Derek’s right, Scott,” Argent cuts in. “Maybe we should clear out of here, leave Stiles out of this mess.”

“We can’t leave him alone, though,” Scott points out. “He - ”

“But you already have, _le lobo_.”

All three of their heads snap at the intruder’s voice. An older woman with short hair has Stiles in a headlock, a knife glittering at his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't wait for chapter four? Head over to my Tumblr [for a sneak peak](http://em2mb.tumblr.com/post/124417066368/heres-a-little-sneak-peak-at-chapter-four-of) at the first scene. I'm new to Tumblr and would love to connect with you there! I'll be posting updates, previews and scenes my mean betas made me cut out because they didn't advance the _plot_. *rolls eyes*
> 
> (And thanks, as always, for reading!)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek can’t help himself. He flips on the light, picks up the dog-eared accident report. There’s an almost-empty bottle of Jack within arm’s reach. Derek thinks he knows why when he begins to read.
> 
> _Patient triaged red: 17-year-old male trapped under the vehicle. Extraction necessitated field amputation of left leg at the knee. Morphine administered. Abdominal perforation and severe crush wounds. Patient conscious but incoherent._
> 
> Derek has to take a step back. He has to remind himself there’s nothing in the report he didn’t already know, nothing he hasn’t already seen. Still, he needs to calm down. He listens for the steady rhythm of Stiles’ heart on the other side of the quiet house.
> 
> Except when Derek finds it, it’s thudding erratically.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains graphic war imagery that could be triggering for service members and their loved ones.

Araya Calavera drags Stiles bodily across the kitchen, the teen’s remaining foot scrabbling for purchase on the slick wood floor. He tries tugging at her arm, but he’s weak and she’s strong, so the only effect it has is to make the formidable huntress grin broadly.

“He still has fight,” Araya says approvingly as Stiles splutters. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Argent can see Scott’s chest heaving. “No claws!” he barks. Next to Scott, Derek remains perfectly still.

“You lie with _dogs_ , Christopher.”

Her insult just makes Stiles squirm more. “Don’t - call - them - _dogs_ ,” he pants. Araya tightens her chokehold until he begins to cough.

“It would be _unfortunate_ ,” Araya hisses into Stiles’ ear, “if after everything you took a sudden turn for the worse.”

Her blade glints razor-sharp at the teen’s throat, a not-so-subtle reminder of what’s at stake here. “Why are you here, Araya?” Argent asks, impatient.

“You know why I am here,” she sneers. “I’ve come for the alpha.”

Argent certainly isn’t expecting Stiles to drawl, “Pretty sure the alpha has two legs, lady.”

Araya lowers the knife just long enough to elbow Stiles lightning-quick in the gut. He cries out, slumping forward. Argent has to throw an arm out to stop Scott from charging.

“Let go of him,” Scott growls.

Araya just laughs. “I don’t take orders from _los lobos_ ,” she snarls, jerking up on Stiles’ chin for good measure and pushing the blade against his pale flesh.

“He’s a child, Araya,” Argent says.

Araya shrugs. “Yet man enough to run with a pack,” she says, but not before her eyes flicker to Stiles’ missing leg. She laughs. “Perhaps I should rethink my choice of words.”

Scott’s breathing heavily. “You want me?”

“I want the alpha,” Araya says. “The _true_ alpha.”

Argent looks from Araya to Scott. He nods to the huntress. “But why?”

“Because there is no such thing as a true alpha!” Araya rages, her grasp on Stiles now so tight his lips are turning blue. “There is no such thing as an _honest -_ ”

“You’re going to kill him!” Derek interjects angrily, and he catches the blade she slings at him with one hand, shaking off a few drops of blood.

But it’s Argent, not Derek, whom Araya addresses next. “Well? Are you going to allow the werewolf who killed your wife to speak to me like that?”

“You get one more chance to answer, Araya,” Argent says evenly. “Why are you here?”

“It’s not obvious?” Araya asks, her eyes set on Scott. “ _I am here to kill the alpha._ ”

Argent draws his gun, ignores Scott when the werewolf insists, “Not while she’s got Stiles!”

Araya laughs again. “Tell you what, Christopher. I will make you a deal. _You_ kill the alpha, and I will not have to come for you next.”

He’s expecting it - Araya is fast, but not so fast Argent didn’t see her reach for it - but there’s nothing he can do to stop her from detonating the flashbang. “Close your eyes!” he shouts, as  Araya lets Stiles fall to the floor with a loud _thud_. Glass breaks in the living room. “Don’t move - ” 

Too late. A single shot rings out, followed by a strangled cry of pain as it tears into whichever werewolf lunged for Stiles. “Not until the smoke clears!” he yells, catching a fistful of the other's shirt.

It takes about 90 seconds. Eyes watering, Argent watches as Derek writhes in pain, Stiles stirring feebly next to him. He decides the teen’s need is greater and goes to him first, slinging Stiles’ arm across his shoulder and pulling him into a sitting position.

Argent is surprised when Derek pushes Scott away.  “Go get Stiles’ wheelchair,” the older werewolf growls, cradling his injured arm to his chest. His shoulder is smoking. _Wolfsbane_. Scott doesn’t have to be told twice.

“Dude,” says Stiles, and he coughs. His pale flesh is unbroken, but Argent has little doubt all the manhandling will leave a bruise. “You were _shot_.”

“I’ll heal,” Derek retorts.

“No, you won’t,” says Argent, leaving Stiles propped against the wall so he can inspect Derek’s wound. “The Calaveras don’t fire and miss. If you were the intended target of that bullet - _which you were_ \- then I guarantee it’s been laced with wolfsbane.” 

This earns him a glare. “Yes, thank you, I hadn’t noticed I’d been poisoned,” Derek snaps. He takes a whiff of his wound. “But this smells like Western Monkshood. Deaton has that.”

The Calaveras actually cut all of their wolfsbane with a rare varietal whose name, loosely translated, means “queen of all poisons.” But Argent’s not about to admit how much he knows about the Mexican hunters. Instead, he says, “No need to involve Deaton. I have some in the car.”

“What makes you think the Calaveras won’t shoot when one of us goes outside to get it?” Scott asks. Completely ignoring his friend’s plea that he doesn’t need help, the alpha picks Stiles up and deposits him in the wheelchair.

Argent nods approvingly at the alpha. “Because that’s not how Araya Calavera works,” he says, and he sighs. “Help Derek fish that bullet out. I need to check Stiles for injuries.” 

“What?” Stiles blurts. “No - ”

“Would you rather we take you to the hospital?” Argent interrupts. 

Stiles hangs his head. “My room’s that way,” he mumbles, tucking his hands under his arms. “But this really isn’t necessary. I’m fine.”

Stiles’ wince when he shrugs out of his hoodie says otherwise. “Did that hurt?” Argent wants to know, feeling through the teen’s t-shirt for broken ribs.

“No,” says Stiles, but he shrinks away when Argent tries to prod the same spot again.

“Are you lying to me, Stiles?”

Stiles yanks up the hem of his t-shirt. There’s a still-healing incision from his lowest rib to his navel. “It doesn’t hurt more than _usual_ ,” he snaps.

“I was sorry to hear about the accident,” Argent says evenly. The teen lowers his shirt. “Isaac, too.”

Stiles snorts. “I’ll bet he was,” he says, rubbing his knuckle across his lips. “Where’d you leave him, anyway?”

“Somewhere safe,” Argent replies. He uses the flashlight on his phone to check Stiles’ pupils, which constrict normally. “How much is 42 times 71?”

“Yeah, I don’t think I could do that in my head even if I didn’t have a concussion,” Stiles says.  “Which I don’t.” He tugs the collar of his shirt back. “My shoulder took the brunt of it, see?”

Sure enough, a green-yellow bruise is starting to rise on the teen’s right shoulder. Argent runs his fingers first over Stiles’ scapula, then his clavicle. “Lift your chin,” Argent instructs. “Do you want something for the pain? I’m assuming you have - ”

“Please. I want to know why some crazy Mexican lady just threatened me at knifepoint. Wheel me back into the kitchen already,” says Stiles.

Scott’s using an ice pick on Derek’s shoulder, which already looks necrotic. He kicks Argent’s bag closer. “Here.”

“Let me take over,” Argent offers. “Thanks, Scott.”

“I wouldn’t let Scott near my arm with an ice pick,” Stiles tells Derek.

Derek grits his teeth. “Are you OK?” he asks Stiles as Argent takes over the tedious work of extracting bullet fragments from the werewolf’s wound.

“He’s fine,” replies Argent.

The werewolf’s eyes flash blue. “I didn’t ask you,” he spits. Blood sprays from the bullet hole. Stiles stops trying to crane his neck and roll closer. He looks nauseous.

“You should lie down,” says Derek.

“Yeah, that’s _not_ happening,” Stiles replies.

Argent tosses the bloody ice pick onto the table, fishes an intricately carved wooden box from the duffel bag. Inside, there’s a single bullet stamped with a skull. He pulls out a lighter. “This is going to hurt,” he warns Derek, cracking open the skull-stamped casing. He deftly lights the wolfsbane inside on fire, grinding the whole mess into the werewolf’s bleeding shoulder.

“Thanks,” Derek grunts. He has one hand on Stiles’ wheelchair.

Scott’s hovering, too. “You’re OK?” he asks Stiles.

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” says Stiles, though Argent notices his fingers twitch involuntarily at his neck, the memory of Araya’s blade ever-present.

Argent starts to stand. He’s not expecting Derek to reach forward with his still-healing arm and drag him back into his chair.  “Start talking,” Derek growls.

It’s not hard to throw off Derek’s hand. “Scott called me a few weeks ago,” Argent grits, jerking his head at the alpha, “to tell me a berserker had - ”

“Berserker? What’s a berserker?” Stiles interrupts. He frowns. “Why do I know that word?”

“A berserker dons the skin and bones of a bear to channel the animal’s ferocity,” Argent says, watching Derek’s face closely. If he’s not mistaken, the werewolf looks guilty. “Problem is, he loses sight of himself.”

“Can you reverse the process?” Scott wants to know.

“Unfortunately, no. The only one I’ve ever killed took three hunters and hundreds of bullets to bring down. Whoever it was, whoever it had been, it wasn’t that person anymore.”

“Hundreds of bullets?” Stiles repeats. “Can someone do the math on that for me? That shakes out to what, one true alpha?”

“No.” Scott shakes his head. “It was stronger than me.”

“You’re telling me something _stronger than an alpha werewolf_ has been tearing up the town?” Stiles asks, incredulous. “For a few weeks? Why am I just now hearing about this? And _you_ \- ” Argent’s not expecting the glare he gets from the teen “ - what took you so long to show up?”

“I was busy,” Argent says tersely. He’d had to stash an uncooperative Isaac at the safe house in Washington before backtracking to Mexico City to trace the berserker’s journey north.

Fortunately, Scott jumps to his defense. “Stiles, this thing - the berserker - it would have killed me had Argent not shown up when he did.” 

Stiles is running his knuckle over his lower lip. “OK, so he’s here now. Fine. Can someone tell me why some crazy Mexican lady just held me at knifepoint? And threatened Scott? And shot Derek?”

Before Argent can answer, the werewolves’ heads snap at the sound of the sheriff’s cruiser in the driveway. A car door slams. Then -

“STILES!”

*           *           *

John’s heart hammers wildly as he surveys his kitchen, broken glass littering the floor. Stiles looks blessedly fine, albeit shaken, but Derek’s shirt is torn and bloody. He sees the Desert Eagle on the table and finds himself cocking his gun. “ _Explain_ ,” he orders Argent.

“Easy, Sheriff,” says Argent, lifting his hands where John can see them.

Stiles, absently rubbing his neck, pleads, “Dad, put your gun away.”

“No can do, son,” John says gruffly, “because wherever this guy shows up, trouble follows.”

“I called him,” Scott interjects. “We need him. There’s - ”

But that’s when the sheriff notices the blue-black bruises rising on Stiles’ pale throat. “Who did that?” John demands, panicked. “Who - ”

“Relax, Dad, it’s just - ”

John can feel his face flush. “Relax?” he says. “Relax? You realize I almost had a heart attack when I saw the front door wide open and skid marks in the drive? And what about the window, huh? Is that - "

It’s a bullet hole. There’s a _bullet hole_ in the window. John rakes a hand through his grey hair. “I can’t do this,” he declares. “That’s it. I have to get you out of here. This town isn’t safe.”

Stiles’ warm brown eyes are watching his dad’s every move. “Dad,” he says softly. “Put down the gun.”

Finally, the sheriff nods, looking a little stunned as he slides his pistol back into his holster. He collapses wordlessly into the seat Scott pushes out for him, gripping Stiles’ wheelchair so tight his knuckles turn white.

Derek offers, “A hunter broke in looking for Scott. Araya Calavera.”

John knows that name. His eyes narrow suspiciously at Argent. “Isn’t that your lawyer?”

“She’s not my lawyer,” says Argent.

“But you know her?”

“Yes,” Argent says simply.

“You know the woman who shot into my house and - ” up close, the finger-shaped bruises on Stiles’ neck are unmistakable, and the sheriff’s hand twitches for his gun “ - tried to choke my kid?”

There’s a beat before Argent replies, “Yes.”

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shoot you,” John snarls.

“Dad, I’m _fine_ ,” says Stiles. “Mr. Argent checked me over already, just some bruises - ”

The sheriff is in Stiles’ face in an instant. “You’re fine? Have you looked in the mirror lately, son? Because you’re so - all of this is so - _far from fine_ , it’s - ”

John doesn’t even realize he’s drawn his gun again until he feels the weight of it in his hand. Stunned, he lets Stiles take it from him, watches his kid eject the magazine and place the gun on the table.

Scott clears his throat. “Sheriff, my mom’s off tonight,” he volunteers. “Would you feel better if, you know, she checked Stiles over?”

He shouldn’t ask, he shouldn’t drag Melissa into this, too, but John nods. He expects Stiles to protest, but after a silent tug-of-war with Scott, his kid sighs and says, “Yeah, OK, whatever.”

The alpha disappears into the living room. John pinches his temple. “Tell me again who wants to kill Scott?” _This time_ , he thinks wearily.

“Araya Calavera,” Argent supplies. “She leads Mexico’s most respected hunting family." 

Derek doesn’t bother to suppress his snort.

Argent glares at the werewolf. “Something you find funny, Derek?”

“Just remembering the time she chained me and Peter up for a week, trying to torture us for information about some she-wolf,” Derek says, flexing his arm. He grimaces.

Something Derek says - John thinks _she-wolf_ \- makes Stiles quirk his eyebrows. But he can’t afford to get distracted. “So don’t you hunters have some kind of code?” he asks Argent. “It’s Scott, he hasn’t hurt anyone.”

Before Argent can reply, Scott wanders back into the kitchen. “I’d actually rather go get her,” he says. “I mean, the berserker’s still out there.”

John really, really wishes he didn’t have to ask. “Berserker?”

“C’mon, Dad, warriors that wear the skins of bears? Keep up,” Stiles quips. The joke falls flat.

Ten minutes later, John is seriously considering saying to hell with his job and moving Stiles back to Cleveland. “So let me get this straight,” he says. “In the last hour, you were attacked by a giant man-bear - ” Scott nods “ - you were shot with wolfsbane, and Stiles - Stiles - ”

“Dad, I’m really OK,” his son says quietly. Stiles is staring at his lap, pinning his gym shorts to his stump with a thumb.

“And you just happened to be there,” the sheriff finishes flatly, locking eyes with Argent.

The hunter grits his teeth. “Like I said, I’ve been trying to track the berserker for weeks, ever since Scott called.”

John sighs. “Fine. I’ll bite. What the heck does the berserker have to do with this Calavera woman?”

There’s a pause as Stiles lifts his head, glancing from his dad, to Scott, to Derek. “Seriously? None of you have this?”

Scott shakes his head. “No." 

“Araya made the berserker,” says Stiles, twisting toward Argent. “Right? She sent it here to kill Scott because she doesn’t think he’s a true alpha.”

Argent drums two fingers on the Stilinskis’ kitchen table. “I believe it was Araya who made the berserker, yes.”

“Which is hella dangerous, right?” Stiles continues. Before Argent can reply, he continues, “So she must _really_ be afraid of Scott.”

The alpha bites his lip. “But she shouldn’t be,” Scott insists. “I’m not - can we reason with her? I’ll promise not to bite anyone, and she’ll call off the berserker.”

“It’s not that simple,” Argent replies. 

Of course not. John glances at Stiles, slouched in his wheelchair. They never get that lucky.

*           *           *

John’s hovering so close to Stiles’ door Melissa almost runs into him. “How is he?” the sheriff asks, anxious. He has to take a step back so she can actually leave the room.

“Resting,” Melissa says, the door clicking shut behind her. “He’ll be sore tomorrow, but John, he’s OK. You need to relax.”

But one look at John’s face, knitted with worry, and she regrets having said it. She grabs the sheriff by the elbow and leads him into the kitchen.

“I know,” he tells her, rubbing his mouth. “I know. I just - I can’t do it anymore, Melissa. It was bad enough when Stiles was healthy. Now - ”

He breaks off. In the living room, Argent is talking to the werewolves in low tones. If Melissa’s not mistaken, it’s the hunter’s continued presence that’s set John’s teeth on edge.

“I’m scared, too,” Melissa admits, dropping his arm. She’d been trying to get caught up on the last season of “The Bachelor” when Scott had called, demanding she seal the house with mountain ash before launching into a confusing explanation of the night’s events using words she’s still just learning. “Part of me was hoping - I let myself believe the supernatural stuff was behind us." 

“It was,” John insists. “Until _he_ showed up.”

Melissa crosses her arms. “Whatever this is,” she says quietly, sure the werewolves can hear, “whatever this animosity is toward Mr. Argent - ”

John’s voice is rough. “He would have killed him, Melissa. He would have killed Stiles to end the nogitsune.”

“But he didn’t,” Melissa points out. “John - you don’t need me to tell you how much that man’s lost.”

The sheriff glances over at Stiles’ closed door and hangs his head. “I know,” he says heavily. “If Stiles hadn’t - ”

But he doesn’t get to finish because there’s an outburst from the living room, angry voices all talking at once before Derek declares, “Then _you_ do it.” The front door slams with such force Melissa can hear the picture frames in the hallway rattling.

The two werewolves step into the kitchen. Derek has his arms crossed, but Scott has enough sense to look sheepish. “I need to go with Mr. Argent, Mom,” he says. “We’re going to go pick up my bike, then try to figure out which direction the berserker went." 

Melissa’s not sure where that leaves her, but she doesn’t get a chance to ask before the door creaks open again. Argent comes in carrying a lethal-looking assault rifle. She steps back. 

“It’s a Colt M4 Carbine,” he tells the sheriff. “Ever fired one?” 

John looks skeptical as he takes the gun from Argent. “What’s this? Grenade launcher?” The hunter nods. John tries to hand the gun back. “Thanks, but I’ve got my patrol rifle in the truck.” 

Argent doesn’t take it. “Not enough firepower.” 

John sets the gun on the kitchen counter. It looks out of place next to a coffee-stained “World’s Greatest Dad” mug on the drying rack. He clears his throat. “Stiles needs rest.”

For a minute, no one moves. Then Derek nods. “Melissa, I’ll drive you home.”

Her instinct is to stay, but the look on John’s face tells her he’s desperate to be left alone. She holds an arm out to Scott, who reluctantly lets her draw him into a hug. She holds her son at arm’s length. “Be safe, OK?”

“I will, Mom,” Scott says, and he follows Argent down the hallway.

Melissa grabs her purse. She’s not expecting John to ask Derek, “The mountain ash will protect her, right?”

“It should keep the berserker out.” There’s a pause. “Want me to come - ”

“That won’t be necessary, Derek,” John says. “Melissa, sorry to drag you into all this.”

She decides a one-armed hug is appropriate, though it must catch the sheriff off guard because he pats her shoulder stiffly. “You can always call me.”

Out in the driveway, Derek actually opens the passenger door of his SUV for her.

Melissa blinks. “Thanks,” she says, climbing in. She’s still staring at Stiles' window as the werewolf kicks it into reverse. “Are they safe?”

Derek’s gripping the steering wheel at ten and two. “None of us are.”

*           *           * 

“Really?” Stiles complains the next morning when his dad tells him to get ready for physical therapy. “We’re doing this? We’re pretending the crazy matriarch of a Mexican hunting clan isn’t in town? Because I’m pretty sure - ”

“ _Stiles_ ,” John barks, the way he would have before the accident. He blinks. Then, quietly, he adds, “Grab your hoodie.” 

Stiles’ eyes narrow. “I’m in a wheelchair, _Dad_.”

John doesn’t reply, just disappears into the guest bedroom. “Here,” he says, refusing to make eye contact with his son.

Stiles snatches the garment from his dad, not thinking about his aching shoulder. He winces.

“Are you - ”

Stiles bats his dad’s hand away. “If we don’t leave now, we’re going to be late,” he snaps. He’s already dreading a laborious trip down the garage steps, but there’s a plastic wheelchair ramp covering the stairs when John opens the door. The words are out of Stiles’ mouth before he can stop himself. “That would have been helpful when I got home last week,” he bites.

By the time they get down the ramp, John’s face is red, though Stiles isn’t sure if it’s exertion or anger. Then he notices the sweat prickling the sheriff’s brow. Stiles’ cheeks burn. “Thanks,” he mumbles, struggling to get the arm of his wheelchair to release.

John grunts something that sounds like _don’t mention it_ , gives the stubborn wheelchair arm a solid whack. It releases. Stiles slides into the passenger seat, picking at a cuticle as his dad stashes the chair in the trunk.

John gets in, nods at his son. “Buckle up.” He taps the button to open the garage.

The hiss of pain is involuntary as the seat belt drags across Stiles' bruised collarbone.

“I can call Bridget, reschedule,” John offers, gripping the steering wheel with both hands.

“Like you did last week?” Stiles retorts, his head turned purposely away from his dad. “Because I'd like to get out of the chair at some - ”

But he stops mid-sentence when he sees the Jeep behind his dad’s cruiser in the drive. He’s not expecting it, and his hand falls with a thud on his stump.

_He'll never drive the Jeep again._

Stiles' throat tightens. He actually hadn't given his car a second thought until that moment. How could he forget about the Jeep? How long had it sat in the school parking lot after the crash?

“Hey.” John’s touch is light on his shoulder. “It’s OK, son. Take a deep breath. We don’t - ”

But Stiles shakes his head. He’s not having a panic attack. “We’re going to be late,” he says again.

They’re halfway to the hospital before John says, “Parrish came by with a couple of deputies to install the ramp this morning.” He clears his throat. “The Jeep’s been at the station since school ended, but they needed to clear the lot for training activities.”

Stiles presses his forehead against the passenger window, blinks back tears he’d rather his dad not see.

His session with Bridget begins with a terse, “You’re late.” She clucks her tongue impatiently as Stiles transfers from his wheelchair to the therapy table, then slides the bolster beneath his right knee. “Do you remember doing bridges last time?” Stiles nods. “OK, let’s try to do the full eight reps today.”

But as soon as Stiles lifts his hips, Bridget’s pushing him back down. “What?”

“Use your glutes, not your back,” she chides, casting a sidelong glance at John. “I thought you were going to practice these at home with a pillow since you missed your session last week.”

“Leave him alone,” Stiles tells Bridget a few minutes later when the prosthetist asks for a word with his dad. “He’s doing the best he can.”

“You want to know why this is so hard?” Bridget replies. Before Stiles can respond, she says, “It’s because you’re not making an effort. You can’t cancel twice and expect to pick up where you left off.”

Stiles glares at her. “In case you didn’t hear, my dad threw out his back,” he says coolly.

“Straighten your sound leg,” Bridget tells him, hand pressing his stump to the bolster. “Don’t point your toes." 

“What’s my dad doing?” Stiles wants to know.

“Dr. Montgomery sent over the order for your leg. They’re probably discussing what insurance will pay for.”

“Oh.” Any mention of how much all this will cost makes Stiles twitch. Every day John snatches a new bill from the mail before Stiles can get a good look. Already some of the envelopes arriving are stamped _PAST DUE_. “Is there, you know, a less expensive option? We’ve, uh, had a lot of bills lately.”

Bridget purses her lips. “You’re young, you were active before the accident, you need a prosthesis that can keep up, Stiles.”

He groans. That’s going to come with a pricetag. “It’s my leg,” Stiles complains. “Shouldn’t I get a say?”

“One more set of short quad arcs and we’ll go look at some options.”

Bridget doesn’t call the room where she takes Stiles “the showroom,” but that’s what he thinks of as he looks at all the fake arms, legs, hands and feet. A few months ago, he would have found it all weirdly fascinating. Now he just feels numb, eyes flickering to the video monitor where an amputee twice his age walks in an endless loop.

His dad enters with the prosthetist, Hank, a minute later. John squeezes Stiles’ shoulder, stares at a poster of an amputee riding a bike with her prosthesis. “You really have people riding bikes with these things?” he asks skeptically.

“Running, biking, coaching their kids’ sports teams - you name it, they do it,” Bridget chirps. “Of course, it’s going to take a lot of hard work on Stiles’ part for him to get there.”

While Bridget talks to John, Hank pulls up a stool in front of Stiles’ wheelchair. “How are you feeling?” he asks.

Stiles shrugs. It’s only his second time meeting Hank, and he doesn’t have a very good read on him yet. “I’m OK,” he lies.

“Mind if I take a look?” Hank asks, tapping Stiles’ stump. Stiles shakes his head, watches as Hank peels back the tight shrinker. Even in his hoodie, Stiles shivers. The air is always frigid in the rehabilitation center. “Any pain? Or strange sensations?”

Sometimes, Stiles swears he feels an itch. Only his leg’s missing when he goes to scratch it.

“No,” he tells Hank.

The prosthetist waves John and Bridget over. “This is what I was talking about,” Hank says to the sheriff as a red-faced Stiles tries to ignore how many people are now staring at his stump. “As long as Stiles’ residual limb continues to change shape, building a socket to fit it will be a challenge. Your insurance only covers the first two, and we’re probably looking at four or five in the first year." 

“Dad - ”

“Whatever Stiles needs, he gets,” John says firmly.

Hank helps Stiles roll his shrinker back on. “I’ll work up an order sheet, run it by you before I call the manufacturer. You’ll have to put down your copay, the twenty percent we discussed, which will probably be right around nine, maybe ten.”

There’s an uneasy feeling rising in Stiles’ stomach. “Nine or ten what?” he asks.

“Thousand,” says Hank.

Stiles’ eyes bulge. “What?” he spits. “How is that only twenty - ”

John’s rubbing his temples. “Stiles,” he says warningly. He tells Hank, “Just call me at the office. I’ll be working through the holiday.” 

“We’ll have our session tomorrow, but the office is closed the rest of the week,” Bridget says after the prosthetist shakes John’s hand. “So it’s really important Stiles does the stretches in his recovery plan at home.” 

Stiles doesn’t bother saying goodbye. To make matters worse, there’s a ticket on the Camry for parking in a handicapped spot when they get outside. John snatches it off the windshield.

“I thought you got tags - ”

“I’m working on it,” John snaps. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, kid.”

Stiles runs a thumb over his lip. He’s the one who should be sorry. “I can’t believe how much all of this costs,” he mutters.

He’s expecting a rebuke, some reassurance that he’s worth every penny. But his dad’s quiet as he helps Stiles slide into the passenger seat.

“Maybe Scott can come over this afternoon,” the sheriff says finally. “I could - it wouldn’t be a bad idea to go into the office for a few hours.”

They could certainly use the money _._  

*           *           * 

“Wait,” says Kira, phone pressed between her cheek and shoulder as she gets out of the Prius at the gas station, “you and Mr. Argent _didn’t_ find the berserker?” 

The connection isn’t great, but she can still hear the frustration in Scott’s voice. “No,” he says with a little sigh, “and now I’m stuck here watching Stiles sleep.” 

It takes Kira a second to respond because she’s thumbing through her wallet looking for her credit card. “Do you want me to come over? I can sit with Stiles while you - ”

“You won’t be able to help him in the bathroom,” Scott interrupts.

Kira stops mid-swipe. “Well, do you want me to come over, keep you company?” she asks, just as the machine blinks _CARD READ ERROR, PAY INSIDE_. “Ugh.” 

“What?”

“I’m at the gas station,” Kira tells Scott. “Need anything?”

There’s a pause, then Scott blurts, “There’s nothing to eat here because of Stiles’ stupid diet.”

“What do you want?” Kira asks, nose wrinkling as she walks past the dumpster. Something’s rotting inside. “Cheetos and a Kit Kat bar?”

“You’re the best,” replies Scott. “Hey, I better go check on Stiles. But I’ll see you soon.”

A bell jingles as she enters the convenience store. If anything, the putrid smell is worse inside. Kira breathes through her mouth as she tries to remember if Scott usually gets Flaming Hot or Cheddar Jalapeno Cheetos.

That’s when she notices the long, thin trail of red creeping slowly down the aisle. Kira drops both bags of snacks as she tentatively follows the blood splatter up to the counter, where the clerk lies dead. 

Kira screams. 

Then she sees the berserker.

Well, what she _thinks_ is the monster who's tried to kill half the pack now. The tall warrior wears animal skins and the skull of a bear. His arms are different lengths. Crimson blood drips from his talon-like hands. He charges. 

If Kira can get to her car, she might have a chance. Her katana is in the trunk. But in her haste, she slips in the gas station attendant’s blood. Her knees bruise as they hit the linoleum. The monster grabs her ankle. She kicks frantically. There’s a cracking of bone as her toes hit something solid. The berserker howls. Kira, free, lunges for the door. She tumbles out into the parking lot just as the bear-man crashes through the glass.

Kira screams again. But this time, she’s ready to fight back. Sparks fly from her fingertips.

This time, the cry of pain is louder, more barbaric. The berserker thrashes to its feet. Before Kira can electrocute it again, it slashes wildly. Kira’s heart hammers. She tries to envision her tails, just like her mother’s been teaching her.

Except Kira doesn’t just fry the berserker with her foxfire. There’s a roar like thunder, then the whole gas station goes up in flames.

*           *           * 

Parrish feels the explosion four blocks away, sees the smoke rising from the leveled Gas Mart a minute before the scanner squawks to life. “Reported 10-80 on Circle Street between Bryant and Piedmonte, who is responding?” 

He snatches so forcefully for his radio he knocks it from the dash mount, ends up kicking it under the seat. He gives up when Deputy Arroyo calls in with her badge number.

“All units, proceed with caution,” the dispatcher orders. “Fire and EMT are ten minutes out.”

Parrish coughs as the thick, black smoke creeps in through his open window. He fumbles, hits the back window button on accident. The stench of gasoline turns his stomach. For a second, _a second_ , he’s back in Afghanistan, clawing his way out from under the flipped humvee.

“Focus, Parrish,” he mutters. He glances at his hands, white-knuckled, grip tight on the wheel. They’re not covered in blood and soot. He’s fine.

Again, the scanner crackles. “Deputy Arroyo, wait for fire rescue.”

Parrish knows that means him, too, but he’s already on scene. He parks half a block from the burned-out gas station, digs out what little equipment he has - gloves, goggles and a fire ax - and makes his way to the flaming shell of a late model Toyota.

“I’m with the sheriff’s department!” Parrish yells. “Can anyone hear me?”

No answer. He balances the ax in one hand so he can pull his shirt up around his face. His breath is hot under the sweat-soaked cotton. 

That’s when he hears the pitiful, animal moan. Parrish has seen strays around the Gas Mart before. He tries again, “Is anyone alive?”

Another whimper. He knows he should go back to his cruiser, wait until fire clears the scene. It’s probably just a badly-injured dog they’ll have to put down anyway. But on the off chance someone survived the blast - 

_You can’t save everyone, Parrish._

At least, that’s what his SFC had said the day their convoy hit the roadside bomb. Swallowing hard, Parrish makes his way back through the smoke. He can hear sirens in the distance now. He’s not sure how much time has passed. Six minutes, seven?

He’s almost to his cruiser when he sees the stormwater ditch. He’s a good fifty feet back from the fire, decides it can’t hurt to check it out. Besides, Parrish feels drawn to the dried-up creek bed.

It’s a good hunch. A teenage girl is balled up just inside the entrance, taking shallow, ragged breaths. Her arms are covered in patchy red-black burns. Her face is hidden.

“Hey,” Parrish says in what he hopes is a soothing tone. His heart’s racing. “Hey, my name’s Jordan, I’m a - ”

The girl lifts her head. Parrish isn't expecting the soot-covered face of Scott McCall’s girlfriend. His stomach knots. Haven’t those kids been through enough?

“Deputy Parrish,” she mutters.

“Kira, right?” he asks, thankful the sirens are so close now. The girl nods. She winces. “You’re going to be - ” not OK, he can’t promise her that “ - you’re going to go to the hospital, you’re - ”

“Not the hospital,” Kira rasps. “I’ll heal too fast.”

Parrish blinks. “Wait,” he says. “Are you a - ”

“Not a werewolf,” she tells him. “I’m a kitsune.”

“Yeah,” says Parrish, licking his lip, “that doesn’t mean - ”

“Take me to Scott,” Kira demands, her voice commanding for how weak she is. “He’s at Stiles’ house.”

And, making a split-second decision he’ll surely regret, Parrish drops the ax and scoops Kira into his arms.

*           *           *

“Will you cut it out?” Stiles snaps as Scott gets up yet again to peer through the living room blinds. “She’ll get here when she gets here.”

 “But she should already _be_ here,” says Scott, anxious, raking a hand through his hair. “You didn’t hear - ”

“Scott,” Stiles interrupts, impatient, “ _everyone_ heard that explosion. I know your werewolf ears have you jumpy, but seriously. It’s July 2nd. Probably just a sparkler bomb. Remember that - ”

“It wasn’t a sparkler bomb,” Scott insists, though he comes back to the couch. “What are you doing, anyway?” 

Stiles turns his computer so Scott can see he has the bestiary pulled up. “Research.” 

“Why would anyone agree to become one of these?” Scott asks, shaking his head at the pen-and-ink diagram of the berserker transformation.

Stiles blinks. “Isn’t it obvious?” he asks, taking his computer back from Scott. He balances it precariously on his right thigh.

“No?”

“The Calaveras must think you’re a bigger threat than - what, what is it?” Stiles asks, alarmed, as Scott bolts out of his seat. But then he hears it, too, the thrum of an engine too loud to be Kira’s, then the squeal of brakes. Stiles tries to tug the alpha back to the couch. “Relax, Scott, it’s my dad’s cruiser.”

But Scott’s not listening. “Your dad just got new brakes,” he says, darting out into the hallway.

Stiles certainly isn’t expecting Scott to return a minute later with Kira in his arms. “Scott, I can walk,” she insists weakly. Her arms are covered in burns. Stiles’ stomach turns.

“Here,” he says, groping for his wheelchair. He clumsily drops the arm and scoots over. “Take the couch.” 

That’s when he notices Parrish, head bent low, tracking in soot and debris. “She wouldn’t let me take her to the hospital,” he says, shifting his weight uncomfortably. “She says she’ll heal, but I still think - ”

“Is that true?” Scott asks Kira. “You can heal?” The kitsune nods. “Maybe we should call your parents, ask your mom what to - ” 

“ _No_.”

It’s Parrish who points out, “Kira, your car was at the gas station, right? The scene’s crawling with cops. They’ll run the plates. They’ll trace it back to you.”

“Can somebody please explain what the hell is going on?” Stiles wants to know.

Stiles hadn’t noticed the burn on Kira’s chin until she tilts her head up to answer. “I killed the berserker,” she tells Scott and Stiles. “It had already killed the clerk and was waiting - ”

Parrish has his own version of events. “She almost killed herself,” he interjects, “and leveled the Gas Mart.”

OK, so maybe Stiles earned the glare he gets from Scott. Still, he asks, “So what, you used foxfire?”

Kira nods. 

“And you’re sure you killed it?” asks Scott, the veins in his arms dark as he turns Kira’s injured hands over in his.

“It ripped him apart,” says Derek, stepping into the living room. His intrusion doesn’t surprise Stiles even a little. The fragment of bone the werewolf pulls from his pocket does. He hands it to Stiles. “Your dad’s on scene. I went as soon as I heard the explosion. He’s already figured out it was Kira’s car.”

“He's got a photographic memory, never forgets a license plate,” Stiles says absently, inspecting the berserker bone. It looks to him like a vertebrae, but he’s not Lydia. He hasn’t seen the banshee since he left the hospital.

“I’ll call him,” Parrish offers. “Let him know Kira’s safe.”

“We should call Argent,” says Scott automatically. “He should know - ”

Derek snorts. “He lives downtown, Scott, I’m sure he heard the explosion. Besides, he knows more about the berserker than he’s letting on.”

Scott looks scandalized at the allegation, like Derek should apologize for the mere suggestion Allison’s dad might be withholding information. Stiles gets it, understands Scott’s reverence toward the hunter. He also happens to agree with Derek.

“Hey,” says Stiles in a low voice to Kira as the werewolves bicker about whether they can trust Argent. “You’re OK? Have you started to heal?”

Kira, who looks miserable again now that Scott’s dropped her hands, grimaces. “It might take awhile,” she says. “I don’t have any tails.”

“You can walk?”

Kira considers it for a moment. “Yeah, I think so,” she says finally.

“Let me patch you up,” Stiles offers. Before Kira can turn him down, he informs the quarrelling werewolves, “I’m going to bandage Kira’s arms so they don’t get infected.”

Derek grunts. Scott blinks. “No,” the alpha says, “I can - ” 

“Yeah, no, I got this,” says Stiles, annoyed. It’s clear the werewolves, so used to healing in an instant, have already forgotten about Kira’s injuries. When Scott starts to rise, Stiles forcefully repeats, “Scott, I got this.” 

In the hallway, Parrish is still on the phone with the sheriff. Stiles suspects the deputy will slip out without saying anything. He wonders if his dad made the right call, letting Parrish in on the secret.

Kira trudges slowly behind Stiles’ wheelchair. He makes her sit on the edge of the tub, helps her slide the tattered remains of her flannel shirt off.

“I don’t know why I’m cold,” she says, shivering in her thin tank top. “You think it’d be the opposite - ”

“No, that’s normal,” Stiles tells her, opening the tap and letting the water run cool. “Your skin helps regulate body temperature, so burn a few layers off and you get hypothermic.”

“Oh.”

Stiles is an idiot. “I didn’t mean - you’re not going to get hypothermia, OK?” he says, gently tugging her hands under the faucet. “I didn't say that to scare you.”

Kira winces as the water rolls off her blistered skin. “I’m the one who’s sorry,” she tells him ruefully. “You shouldn’t - you’re supposed to be resting. So you can recover.”

Stiles had tried to rest earlier. Instead, he’d overhead Scott tell Kira what a burden having to stay was. “Scott and Derek heal too quickly to know how to dress wounds,” he says. “Besides, it’s been a long time since I’ve felt useful.”

She watches him dig sterile gauze and antibiotic ointment out of the cabinet. “I feel like it was my fault,” she admits quietly as Stiles pulls one of her wrists out of the spray and blots gently with a clean towel.

“What was?”

“The gas station clerk,” says Kira. “I think the berserker was waiting for me. That man was an innocent bystander. He didn’t deserve to die.”

Stiles stops. “Hey,” he says. “Listen to me, that’s not on you. That’s on the Calaveras. They’re the ones who created that monster.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Kira insists. “Scott uses his power to help people. Why do they want him dead? Aren’t hunters supposed to follow a code?”

“Something tells me Allison’s new code never had a chance to catch on,” Stiles says grimly.

*           *           *

Her parents’ angry, muffled voices drift upstairs from the kitchen, punctuated occasionally with a slammed door. Kira closes her eyes. She knows they’re fighting about her, even if she can’t quite make out what they’re saying. Her burns itch. She wants to peel back the bandages and scratch.

There’s a chime from her computer. She almost trips over her own feet getting up to answer.

**_RealStiles24 wants to video chat with KforKira_ **

Her face falls. She’d been hoping it was Scott. Still, Stiles had been really sweet to her earlier, the only one who noticed she was in pain after the explosion. She clicks accept. His pixelated face fills the screen.

“Hey,” says Stiles, coming into focus. He’s sitting in his bed, shoulders hunched, too-big hoodie swallowing his thin frame. “How are you feeling?”

Kira shrugs, then winces in pain. “I’m OK,” she lies because she feels bad complaining when he still needs a fistful of painkillers to get through most days. 

“I put the rest of the Neosporin in your bag,” Stiles says. “You should - ”

“I found it, thanks,” says Kira. She bites her lip. She and Stiles aren’t close. They don’t talk, not really, not even when she’d visited him in the hospital. Usually she’d raid the game closet on the children’s floor, bringing back a battered copy of Chutes and Ladders so they could delight in each other’s misfortune. 

“So I was thinking - ”

But before Stiles can finish, the computer tips and he disappears from screen. Kira can’t see him - just the ugly floral comforter on the bed - but she hears him curse. “Stiles? What’s wrong? Are you OK?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, and he’s back in frame. “Sorry. It’s hard to balance a laptop on one leg.”

Kira hadn't considered this. It makes her feel even guiltier that he’s the one checking on her. Downstairs, she hears another door slam. She flinches.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” says Kira quickly. Then she sighs. “My parents are fighting. About what to do with me.”

Stiles blinks. “About what to do with you?” he repeats. “What is there to do with you?”

Kira pulls her feet up onto the desk chair, clutching her knees to her chest and swiveling back and forth in degrees. “Just - you know. Mom’s been trying to work with me on the control stuff, but I’m just not getting it.” 

“Like, ‘How to Kitsune, A Beginner’s Guide?’” Before she can respond, Stiles laughs at his own joke. In a robotic voice, he says, “‘Kitsune 101: Taming Your Ancient Fox.’”

“Stop it,” Kira says defensively. “It’s not funny.”

Stiles’ face falls. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says ruefully, smoothing his brutally short hair. “I mean, if it’s all about control, maybe I can help.”

“I doubt it.”

“No, hear me out,” Stiles insists. “I taught Scott how to make nice with his inner wolf. Now look at him. He’s all, ‘I’m the true alpha.’ Not without my help, buddy.”

Kira’s skeptical. “Really?”

“I mean, sure, there were still nights I had to chain him up - ” Stiles stops mid-sentence. “I swear it wasn’t as kinky as it sounds.”

Kira’s cheek is resting on her knee. “But don’t you have enough going on?” she asks. “You have all that school work, PT - ”

Stiles waves his hand. “Yeah, and this is way more important.” There’s a pause. “OK, maybe I’m really bored. Be my project? Pretty please?”

Finally, Kira nods. “OK,” she says.

Stiles claps. “Perfect! Hey, your mom hasn’t assigned any required reading, has she? Like any books you could bring - ”

“They’re all in Japanese,” Kira interrupts.

There’s a pause. “Then I guess it’s lucky I can still read a little Japanese,” Stiles says.

*           *           *

Derek rises from the couch, phone pinned to his shoulder. “It’s no trouble,” he tells the sheriff, voice low. It’s after midnight, and he doesn’t want to wake Stiles. “Anything I should know?”

“Did he take his meds?”

“Two Percocets, a little after ten,” Derek replies, deciding to duck into John’s office so he can close the door behind him.

There’s a pause before the sheriff says, “If he wakes up, and the pain’s bad, there’s a bottle of Oxy on my desk. Just - don’t advertise it around the kids, OK?”

Derek takes a step forward, finds the little orange pill bottle half-under a stack of papers. “No disrespect, Sheriff, but I don’t think any of Stiles’ friends can actually get high on opioids.”

“Oh. Right. Werewolves.” John clears his throat. “Well, give him one if he needs it. He didn’t last night, but he did the night before.”

“Painkillers, check. What else?”

“If - jeez, OK, if I can’t get home before PT at 11, can you take him to the hospital?” The sheriff sounds weary.

“Of course,” says Derek, absently thumbing through the open manila folder. He realizes with a start it’s the accident report from the bus crash. He recoils. “Uh, what should I do with Stiles until then?" 

“There’s a sheet on the fridge that lists what he can eat,” John says. “Usually he’ll take a bath, but don’t feel like you have to give him one. I’ll do it when I get home.”

“I mean, I can,” Derek volunteers. He quickly adds, “If it’ll help.” 

“Thanks, Derek,” John says before hanging up.

Derek can’t help himself. He flips on the light, picks up the dog-eared accident report. There’s an almost-empty bottle of Jack within arm’s reach. Derek thinks he knows why when he begins to read.

_Patient triaged red: 17-year-old male trapped under the vehicle. Extraction necessitated field amputation of left leg at the knee. Morphine administered. Abdominal perforation and severe crush wounds. Patient conscious but incoherent._  

Derek has to take a step back. He has to remind himself there’s nothing in the report he didn’t already know, nothing he hasn’t already seen. Still, he needs to calm down. He listens for the steady rhythm of Stiles’ heart on the other side of the quiet house.

Except when Derek finds it, it’s thudding erratically.

He dashes across the house, flinging the bedroom door open with such force it knocks a hole in the drywall. Derek’s not sure what he’ll find on the other side and is honestly sort of relieved when he realizes the writhing teen is just having a nightmare. Derek’s own heart stops racing.

“Stiles,” he says, easing onto the edge of the bed. “Hey, Stiles, wake up.” 

He’s not prepared for the frantic tug of Stiles’ fingers on his henley. “Derek,” the teen slurs, “I thought you were - I thought she - ” 

Derek pries Stiles’ hand back. “What is it?” he asks, confused. Then it hits him: Stiles is high. “Hey, listen to me. You were having a nightmare. But you’re OK now.”

“I need to pee,” Stiles declares, throwing the covers back as Derek gropes for the wheelchair in the dark. He turns his back on Stiles for half a second, during which the teen tries to climb out of bed on his own. 

Even with his supernatural reflexes, it’s a rough catch. He makes an executive decision to skip the wheelchair, half-leading, half-carrying Stiles to the bathroom.

“Where’s my dad?” Stiles demands, an unsettling haze clouding his brown eyes. “Is he - ”

“He’s at work,” Derek cuts in, averting his eyes as Stiles shoves his boxers down without preamble. “You got this?”

But Stiles most definitely doesn’t. He yanks his underwear down too far, until his boxers are hanging off his stump. Derek gives Stiles a minute, sincerely hopes the teen will figure it out, but in the end has to help Stiles tuck himself back in. The teen snorts. 

Derek’s starting to see why the whole, incredibly messy situation has the sheriff self-medicating. “C’mon,” he says gruffly, after he’s helped Stiles wash his hands. “Let’s get you back to bed.” 

He manages to wrangle Stiles back under the sheets, only to have the teen reach up and give Derek’s belt loop a tug. “No bedtime story?” he asks, a shit-eating grin spreading on his lips.

Derek sighs, dropping his weight to the edge of Stiles’ mattress. “You want a story,” he says flatly.

Stiles’ pulse is finally steady. His cheeks are a little red. “Shit, Derek. I get like this sometimes when the painkillers kick in.”

The werewolf softens. “You’re fine,” he says. “You want to talk about it?”

Stiles blinks. “Talk about what?”

“You were having a nightmare,” Derek reminds him. 

“Oh yeah.” There’s a pause. “No, not really?” And for some reason, Stiles hooks Derek’s belt loop again. This time, he doesn’t let go.

Derek starts to push Stiles’ hand away, stops when he feels a spike of pain. “Hey,” he says, startled, “are you OK? Did you hurt yourself when you fell - ”

“I don’t want more drugs, Derek,” Stiles says quietly. “Just sit with me for a minute?”

For some reason, Derek finds the silence oppressive. He’s certainly not used to Stiles being so _still_. “You said you wanted a story,” he says, rubbing Stiles’ palm with his thumb, rushing on, “so here’s one my uncle used to tell us.”

Stiles closes his eyes. “Peter?”

Derek starts to shake his head. He catches himself. “No,” he says. “My mom’s older brother, Frederick. He had two daughters, one a little younger than me, one a little older than you.”

“How old’re you?” Stiles wants to know.

Derek doesn’t answer. He continues, “My cousins were both human, and whenever it rained, Uncle Frederick would warn them - ”

“ - not to go drinking from a werewolf’s print,” Stiles finishes.

Derek frowns. “How did you know that?”

The teen’s eyes flicker open. “Everyone knows that.” They close again.

_No, they don’t._ But Stiles had been reading the bestiary before bed. Maybe it’s in there. Derek isn’t sure he’s ever looked up werewolves in it. He makes a mental note to do so the next day.

“Anyway - ” 

He breaks off at the sound of Stiles’ light snore. Derek gives it a couple more minutes, until the pain spidering up his arm levels off. He smooths Stiles’ blankets and leaves the room. 

*           *           *

_October 21, 2010_

_Kandahar, Afghanistan_

_U.S. Army SPC Jacob Geoffries wolf-whistles when he sees Parrish on the tarmac, waving the corporal over. “Stuck with us today?” he wants to know, lips parting into a wide grin. He has to hastily wipe away a trail of tobacco spittle, pressing a finger to his lips as he glances over his shoulder. His sergeant, Tyler Lessard, doesn’t even look up from his checklist._

_Parrish also chooses to ignore it, tosses his kit into the back of the humvee. “Not sure what the hell I did to deserve six hours in the desert with you, Jake.”_

_“Six?” counters Cole Hanson, clapping Parrish on the back. “That’s exactly the kind of optimism I’d expect from a corn-fed Iowa boy.” His gear lands with a dull thud on top of Parrish’s._

_Geoffries groans. “Good God, how long are we in for?”_

_Finally, Lessard looks up. “It took the team that left yesterday almost ten,” he says, blinking when he sees Parrish. “But the weather’s better today,” he mumbles at his clipboard._

_Twenty yards away, Parrish’s usual crew is clambering into the other humvee. His buddy, Seth Riggs, must see Parrish watching because he gets a little salute as the specialist disappears into the vehicle._

_“Well, what are you waiting for?” Lessard prompts, gesturing toward the humvee. “Get a move on.”_

_Hanson climbs into the driver’s seat while Parrish offers Geoffries a boost. “Nine hours in this fucking thing?” he complains, adjusting the gunner’s sling. “All right, but somebody else has to tell Angie when I cain’t have kids no more.”_  

_Parrish stifles a laugh. That's when Lessard grabs him by the shoulder, steers him away from the humvee. “Listen,” he starts, voice low. “About Riggs - ”_  

_Parrish stiffens. “I didn’t see anything,” he lies._

_“Yeah, you did.” Lessard sighs. “Look, I don’t want you thinking - it’s not just fucking around, OK? I love Seth.”_

_It’s not what Parrish is expecting him to say. “It’s your business,” he says, same thing he told Riggs that morning after a sleepless night mulling over the encounter he wasn’t supposed to see._

_“C’mon, Parrish,” Lessard pleads. “I tell you I’m in love with your best friend, and all you say is it’s my business?”_

_The words are out of Parrish’s mouth before he realizes how harsh they sound. “I didn’t ask,” he snaps. He feels his cheeks flush. “And I won’t, you know, tell.”_  

_It’s the wrong thing to say. “Good talk,” Lessard sneers, dropping Parrish’s arm like he doesn’t want anything to do with the corporal. “You know what the worst part is? We thought you’d be the one who might just understand, and you’re acting like_ Jake _.”_  

_Lessard walks around the humvee, slams the door with unnecessary force. Parrish feels sick as he climbs in back. Hanson gets the cue to pull forward, which sends Geoffries bouncing._  

_“Easy, Hanson!” Geoffries barks, wincing and rubbing his crotch._

_Hanson laughs. “Doin’ my part, Jakey,” he drawls. “Whatever it takes to keep a son of a bitch like you from procreating.”_

_Parrish has ridden with the three of them enough times to know now’s usually when Lessard jumps in, tells the two to cool it. But the reprimand doesn’t come. Parrish sets his jaw, checks the jammer as the convoy exits the airfield._

_He knows Hanson and Geoffries are joking because they’re on edge. They all are. There’s been a death a day for a month now. Even the jammer under Parrish’s fingertips is basically useless. The insurgents aren’t using radio-controlled IEDs anymore. These days, it’s all invisible command wires and buried pressure plates._

_The tension finally breaks once they’re past the first checkpoint. “Hey, Cole, did you get to talk to Marissa yesterday?” Parrish asks. Hanson had skipped their usual poker game because he had a Skype date with his wife._

_“Sure did,” Hanson replies. “Evan just got his one-year pictures taken. I swear, Parrish, that kid is the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”_

_Overhead, Geoffries snorts. “Must not be yours, then,” he fires back._

_“You’re just jealous,” Hanson retorts. “You wish you - ”_

_“Guys,” Lessard interrupts in a tone that makes Parrish think he, too, knows about Angie’s miscarriage. After all, Lessard and Geoffries both grew up in the same small town in Georgia. “Parrish, you’ve been warned, Hanson’s going to make you look at a hundred goddamn baby pictures later.”_

_“Looking forward to it,” Parrish says diplomatically. He wishes he could see Lessard’s face, get a better read on his friend._

_“What about you, Parrish?” Geoffries wants to know. “You seem like the type to settle down with a house full of kids. What happened to that girl you brought to my wedding? What was her name?”_

_“Lindsey,” Parrish supplies. They’d dated off and on since high school, more recently on. But lately they’ve been fighting every time they get a chance to talk. Knowing she’s back in Ames, waiting for a ring, twists his stomach into knots._

_“And?” Geoffries prompts._  

_Parrish scratches under his chin strap. “And what?”_

_“Is that still going on?”_  

_Parrish shrugs before he remembers Geoffries can’t see him. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s still going on.”_  

_Geoffries chuckles. “Don’t sound too excited, Parrish. What’s wrong?”_

_“Nothing’s wrong,” Parrish lies._

_“Let me guess,” says Hanson, “she doesn’t want you to re-up.”_  

Right in one. _“No.”_

_To Parrish’s surprise, it’s Lessard who cuts in, “Guys, leave Parrish alone.”_

_“You’re just jealous, Sarge,” Geoffries retorts. “Parrish, Lessard don’t got a girl back home, so he gets a little sensitive when we talk about the ladies.”_

_“Are you even doing your job up there, Geoffries?” Lessard snaps._

_“Of course I’m doing my fucking job,” Geoffries grunts, indignant. “I’ve actually got a girl to go home to.”_

_The humvee goes quiet, though not for long. Ten minutes later, Geoffries is back to bitching about the heat, about the dust, about the sling._

_“I’m cooking,” he complains. “Talk about schweddy balls.”_

_Hanson snorts. It’s the last thing Parrish hears before the roar of the bomb, exploding like a dusty thunderclap beneath the belly of the humvee._

_The vehicle flips._

_Parrish plows chest-first into the humvee’s roof, now upside down. It knocks the wind out of him. His mouth is full of blood. He spits out a tooth. Outside, there’s shouting, followed by a rapid-fire round of bullets. He props himself up on his elbows. He’s sore, but he can move._

_He tries the door. It won’t budge. That’s when Parrish realizes he doesn’t need it to. Half of the humvee’s been blown open. Choking on rubble and dust, he waits for a break in gunfire. The others. He has to help the others._  

_Someone’s there to help him. Riggs drags Parrish out of the mangled humvee. Frantic, he yells, “Where’s Tyler?”_

_“I don’t know,” Parrish admits. He’s really dizzy. He tries to straighten, but Riggs wrestles him down._

_“It’s a goddamn firefight, Jordan,” Riggs chides, hauling him behind the wreckage to relative safety. “Fuck, aren’t these things supposed to be armored - ”_

_A round explodes mere feet from them. This time, it’s Parrish who knocks Riggs to safety._

_Parrish thinks he hears someone calling for a medevac. Finally, the smoke clears enough he sees the crumpled front of the humvee. “It’s on fire,” he whispers._

_“What?” Riggs shouts._

_Parrish points. “It’s on fire! Tyler and Cole are - ”_

_It’s either the bravest or the stupidest thing Riggs has ever done. He takes off, sprinting to the burning cab. After everything they’ve been through together - basic training, two wars, Jake’s bachelor party in Atlanta - Parrish doesn’t feel he has any choice but to follow._

_They haul Hanson out first. His face is black with soot and blisters, but he’s got a faint pulse. “Cole’s alive!” Parrish shouts._

_But Riggs isn’t listening. With an anguished cry, he drags Lessard from the wreckage without Parrish’s help. The sergeant isn’t moving._  

_Parrish drops Hanson’s wrist, dives for Riggs and Lessard. He swears he can hear his best friend’s heart beating, it’s so loud. “Tyler,” Riggs is shouting, “Tyler, stay with me, man, stay with me.”_

_But Lessard’s not breathing._

_And fuck, there’s Geoffries. Parrish finally spies the specialist, fifteen feet away, directly in the line of fire. Parrish swears. He’d thought Geoffries was a goner, since the humvee flipped. He tries dragging Riggs off his dead boyfriend._

_“Seth,” Parrish hears himself say, “Seth, there’s nothing - you can’t do anything for him, OK?”_

_“No,” Riggs is sobbing, “shut the fuck up, Jordan, shut the - ”_

_“It’s too late, Seth,” Parrish says miserably. “Tyler’s dead, and we’re going to lose Jake too if we don’t do something_ right now.”

_He doesn’t actually expect Riggs to dart forward, but it’s a relief when he does because Parrish doubts he can handle the wounded gunner on his own._

_It’s not until they have Geoffries back behind the wreckage that Parrish realizes the specialist’s right leg is gone. He frantically begins patting his body armor for his first aid kit. “Fuck, fuck - ”_

_“Parrish, I got this,” says Riggs. He yanks out the Army-issue tourniquet. “Check on Cole,” he commands._

_Hanson’s unconscious, but he continues to take shallow, ragged breaths. Parrish makes sure Riggs isn’t looking, crawls over to double-check Lessard’s pulse. He doesn’t find one. He walks back to Riggs and Geoffries on shaky legs. The firefight is over._

_“Fuck, Parrish.”_

_Startled, Parrish is surprised to see Geoffries’ eyes open. “Hey, Jake,” he says in what he hopes is a soothing voice. His own heart is drumming way too fast. Where the hell is the rest of his crew? Had they all made it through the firefight?_

_“Check my balls,” Geoffries pleads. “Riggs won’t check my fucking balls.”_

_“Your balls are fine,” Riggs says in a shaky voice that tells Parrish yes, he checked, and no, the news isn’t good._

_“Liar,” Geoffries slurs accusingly, and he closes his eyes._

_“Jake, stay with us,” Parrish says, crouching down. He doesn’t look at Geoffries’ mangled leg. The smell of seared flesh is bad enough. He hears more shouting as boots pound across the sand. “You hear that? Help’s on its way.”_

_Geoffries doesn’t open his eyes, but he asks, “What about - where’re Hanson and Lessard?”_

_To Parrish’s surprise, it’s Riggs who lies, “Who do you think is going to save you, asshole?”_

_The specialist who’d taken Parrish’s usual spot in the other humvee is the first to reach them. He swears when he sees Geoffries’ leg. “Medevac is five out.”_

_It’s more like ten. Parrish holds Geoffries’ hand until he’s been loaded onto the helicopter. “If I don’t make it - ” the specialist starts._

_The doors close before he can finish. Someone drags Parrish back. Even their staff sergeant, usually terse and unpleasant, seems shaken. “Parrish,” he orders, and he steers him toward a trembling Riggs. The pair of medics who’d tried in vain to revive Lessard are loading his body into an HRP._  

_“He’s dead,” Riggs whispers, just before he collapses, weeping, in Parrish’s arms._

*           *           * 

Parrish’s feet pound the pavement, battered sneakers doing little to absorb the shock. His lungs burn. His knees twinge. He’s not sure where he’s headed until the acrid smell of gasoline floods his nostrils. Parrish choke-coughs, doubling over as he splutters. 

He’d finally clocked out around midnight, stood under the spray in his dingy shower until the old water heater groaned in protest. Parrish kept scrubbing, until his skin prickled with goosebumps, until he could no longer feel the explosion in his bones.

Yet he’d run, inadvertently, right back to the burnt-out gas station. Parrish straightens once he’s caught his breath, and he immediately frowns. He spies the tell-tale beam of a flashlight beyond the crime scene tape, but there isn’t a cruiser in sight.

Parrish suddenly wishes he’d brought his gun. It’s 2:30 in the morning, and like Jim always said, _nothing much good happens after midnight_. Parrish makes a split-second decision, ducks under the crime scene tape. But the ground is uneven, and he almost loses his balance. He scuffs his shoe in the gravel.

Whoever’s tiptoeing around the gas station turns the flashlight off. _Crap_. Parrish swallows hard. “I’m with the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Office,” he calls. “Show yourself!”

It’s not like he’s expecting to see Lydia snooping around an active crime scene in the middle of the night, but when she steps out of the shadows, it somehow makes a lot of sense.

“You’re not supposed to be here, Lydia,” Parrish chides, but it’s less annoyed and more anxious as glass crunches under her nude pump. Before he can stop himself, he adds, “It’s not safe.”

Even in the dim light, he can see Lydia’s lips curl into a ruby red smirk. “What happened to, ‘I’m with the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Office?’” she asks.

Instead of answering, Parrish grabs her elbow. “Some light would be nice,” he says dryly as he holds up the crime scene tape for her. The flashlight clicks on.

Except he’s shirtless and sweaty, and she’s staring at his fucked-up shoulder again. “Is that why you won those awards?” Lydia asks casually, pointing with the flashlight.

“What?”

“Your bio,” says Lydia. “It said you received a Bronze Star with Valor and a Purple Heart.”

Right. The sheriff had insisted Parrish include his military honors when his class from the police academy had been featured in the local newspaper. “You looked up my _bio?”_ he asks, dropping her elbow and crossing his arms. “Why are you here, Lydia?”

“The same reason as you,” she says with a shrug.

If Lydia can tell him why he’d inexplicably run to a crime scene in the middle of the night, Parrish is all ears. “Which is?”

Lydia’s face is lit from below, the flashlight giving her pale skin an otherworldly glow. “I want answers,” she says.

“That’s - ”

Of course. He’s looking for answers.

“C’mon,” says Parrish. “I’m going to walk you back to your car.”

Outside the Prius, Lydia offers him a ride. “Let me take you home, Deputy,” she says, tugging at the hem of her short dress as she slides into the car.

Parrish has to wonder what’s really on the table. “I don’t think so, Lydia,” he says. No sooner are the words out of his mouth than a clap of thunder echoes in the distance.

“Suit yourself,” says Lydia, and she gives him a little wave as she drives off.

The storm holds off until he’s jogging up the drive of his apartment complex. Fat raindrops pelt Parrish as he darts under his neighbor’s balcony, trying to avoid the deluge. By the time he gets up the stairs to his apartment, his sneakers are squelching with every step. He kicks them off at the door, drops his gym shorts in the hall, heads straight for the shower.

It’s probably good the water heater still hasn’t recovered.

*           *           *

It’s only after Scott rings the Yukimuras’ doorbell that he stops to think about how bad he must smell after a night collecting bezoars with Argent. He’s sniffing under his armpit when the door opens.

“Scott,” says Ken, like it’s perfectly normal to find his daughter’s werewolf boyfriend on the front step at 7 a.m., smelling strongly of goat. “Won’t you take off your shoes?

Red-faced, Scott drops his arm and follows Ken into the house. “How’s Kira?” he asks, kicking off his muddy sneakers.

Instead of answering, Ken leans against the bannister and calls, “Kira! Scott’s here.”

Scott can hear the kitsune throwing back her bed covers and padding down the hall. She smells earthy, arms wrapped in bandages. “Does it smell awful?” she asks anxiously, cringing when his nose wrinkles. “Mom made a poultice.”

Scott shakes his head. “C’mere,” he says, wrapping her in a tight hug. He brushes her chin with his thumb. It’s bandaged, too. “I can’t talk. I spent all night chasing goats with Mr. Argent.”

“Goats?” Kira repeats. 

“You don’t want to know,” says Scott. “So how long does your mom - ” 

“ _Scott._ ”

Noshiko is much sharper than her husband, who’s retreated to the kitchen to make coffee. Scott watches the 900-year-old kitsune descend the stairs.

“Mrs. Yukimura,” he mutters as Kira puts several feet between them.

“Kira does not have any tails,” Noshiko says, arms crossed. “She needs time to heal.”

“Mom - ”

Noshiko holds the door open for Scott, who clumsily steps back into his shoes. “Kira may call once she has recovered more,” she tells the werewolf.

“But Mom - ”

“Goodbye, Scott.”

“Feel better,” says Scott stiffly as Noshiko practically shuts the door in his face. He can hear all three Yukimuras arguing in the foyer.

“ - not fair,” Kira insists.

“Noshiko, he means well,” Ken tries as Scott flushes guiltily from his spot on the porch. 

But Noshiko scolds them both. “You don’t live to be 900 by attaching yourself to a werewolf.”

*           *           *

Argent doesn’t have to hit the lights to know he’s not alone in the mothballed apartment. Hand on his gun, he says evenly, “Araya.”

She rises from the shadows, nimble fingers curled around her favorite dagger. “Christopher,” she says, circling his desk, still strewn with books and papers. “You’ve been out with the alpha.”

Argent drops his bag in the hall. “What do you want?” he asks. He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe, forcing her to brush past him on the way to Allison’s room.

“To understand,” Araya calls over her shoulder. A light clicks on at the end of the hallway. He swallows hard, then follows the huntress. “This is what you lose when you ignore the code,” she declares, swiping dust off the dresser with two fingers.

Allison’s room is exactly how she left it, bed unmade, two dresses still on their hangers thrown over her desk chair. He’s spent hours wondering what Allison had been thinking when she plucked them from her closet only to discard them. Had she been worried about fashion? Or perhaps her concerns had been more practical, testing the give of each garment because she knew she’d need to fire her bow.

“ _Nous protégeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger eux-mêmes_ ,” Argent recites.

 Araya’s frown twists into a snarl. “ _Cazamos a los que nos cazar_ ," she barks.

“No,” says Argent, and he collects Allison’s dresses from the back of the chair to stuff back in her closet, “not anymore. Allison wasn’t interested in hunting her friends.”

But Araya isn’t interested in Allison’s new code. “Allison was a _child_ ,” she spits. “She didn’t know what she wanted. Raised properly, she wouldn’t have befriended werewolves and kitsunes. Yes,” Araya says, lips curling into a smirk, “I know about _la zorra_.”

“Then you know about the berserker,” Argent says, annoyed. “Tell me, Araya, who’d you force to don the bear suit?”

Araya smiles with all her teeth. “Esteban.”

Esteban Calavera had been the youngest of her three sons - and in his mother’s eyes, the least adept. Now, he’s a pile of bones scattered across a crime scene. “And what did he do?” Argent snaps. “You know what? I don’t want to know.”

“Victoria knew what was right. Victoria knew how to raise a strong daughter, one who would become a leader. She could make the hard calls. That is why she is no longer with us. Yet - ” Araya’s tone is deadly as she examines a photo of Allison and her mother “ - Derek Hale, her murderer, lives.” 

“Hale isn’t even an alpha anymore,” Argent says through gritted teeth. 

“Victoria’s blood is on _your_ hands,” Araya says, wagging an accusatory finger. “If you hadn’t let Allison associate with werewolves, been a proper father, a proper husband, a proper hunter - ”

“Get out.”

“ - then your family would still be alive.”

“I said, _get out_.”

“Kill the alpha,” Araya hisses as she passes. “Avenge your wife and daughter.”

Argent holds the door open for her. “And what if I don’t?” he asks, defiant. 

Araya pats his cheek. “Then I will.”

*           *           * 

Stiles wakes up with a full bladder and a sharp pain in his stump. It feels like it’s being strangled. “Dad,” he calls, shucking the too-tight shrinker, “I’m up!” His skin has a greyish hue to it after being wrapped all night. He tries massaging it the way Bridget showed him. It still hurts. “Dad? I really have to go - oh.”

Derek looks as uncomfortable as Stiles feels. “Your dad’s at work,” he says stiffly.

“Right,” Stiles says, running a knuckle across his lip. “Uh, I can probably manage - ”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Derek interrupts, lining the wheelchair up with the edge of the bed. But there’s something about the way the werewolf won’t look at him -

“I had a nightmare, didn’t I?” Stiles says flatly. He remembers now, balling his fists in Derek’s soft shirt, clinging for dear life. His cheeks burn.

Derek’s hands settle on Stiles’ hips, help him slide over onto the wheelchair. Bridget would yell, tell the werewolf that Stiles can do this on his own. But Derek doesn’t know any better. “Yeah, you did.”

Stiles forces a smile. “You probably expected the overnight babysitting shift would be quiet,” he says dryly, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“A nightmare I can handle,” Derek replies, pushing Stiles toward the bathroom. “I was more worried about a hunter crashing through your bedroom window.”

“Oh,” says Stiles, and it occurs to him Derek would have stayed even if his dad wasn’t stuck at the station, sorting out the mess at the Gas Mart. He avoids eye contact with the werewolf as he scoots onto the toilet. “Do you - I’ve got physical therapy today.”

Derek’s back is to him. “I’m going to take you. Your dad will meet you there.”

“Right,” Stiles mutters. There’s another vague memory tugging at the back of his mind. “Hey, so last night, I didn’t - ”

“You were fine,” Derek interrupts, settling Stiles in his wheelchair. “Your dad says you usually take a bath in the morning. Before or after - ”

“I’d rather skip it,” Stiles cuts in, tucking his hands beneath his armpits. It’s embarrassing needing Derek’s help on and off the toilet, but it's locker room stuff. He really, really doesn't want the werewolf to see his many scars. “I mean, I'm just going to get sweaty in PT.”

Derek shrugs. “What do you want for breakfast?”

“What do I _want_ , or what can I eat?” Stiles grumbles, navigating the wheelchair through the tight doorway. Derek doesn't say anything. Stiles settles on, “Applesauce. Cream of Wheat.”

“Milk?” Derek asks, though he's already pulling the carton out of the fridge. Stiles knows Melissa's written _plenty of fluids_ on his diet plan and underlined it twice. “You're supposed to get another Percocet, too.” 

“No thanks.”

“Stiles,” Derek says evenly, shaking cereal into a bowl.

“I don't want to be loopy, OK?” Stiles says. _You saw me last night_.

The silence is broken when the microwave dings. “Here,” Derek says, bringing Stiles’ breakfast to the table. Stiles gives it a stir, watches it drip off his spoon. He makes a face. “Come on, eat up,” Derek urges, dropping a plastic applesauce cup next to Stiles’ bowl.

Stiles abandons the Cream of Wheat, peels back the foil lid. “Ever wake up and wonder, ‘When did this become my life?’” he murmurs.

Derek, who’s half-heartedly wiping down the Stilinskis’ messy kitchen counter, stops. “Yes,” he says, wringing the towel in his hands.

Stiles bristles. “Well, I’m sorry to inconvenience - _shit_.” He stares at the werewolf, open-mouthed. Of _course_ Derek knows what it’s like to have his whole world shattered. “Derek, man, I’m sorry. I’m really - ”

“Do you care if I have a cup of coffee?” Derek interrupts.

Stiles is expecting anger. The werewolf doesn’t sound angry. “Sure, make yourself a pot. I can’t help you drink it, though.” 

“I know,” Derek says. “That’s why I’m asking.” 

“Oh,” says Stiles, swallowing a bite of applesauce. “Like - like you don’t want to drink it in front of me because I can’t?” Derek nods. Stiles’ eyes narrow suspiciously. “But you’re Derek Hale.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Derek asks, scooping grounds into the filter basket.

“I don’t know, shouldn’t you delight in my suffering?”

At this, Derek’s the one who bristles. “Why would I do that?” he asks, crossing his arms and leaning against the counter.

“I mean, you don’t exactly like me,” Stiles points out.

“That’s not true.”

“You threatened to rip my throat out with your teeth,” Stiles says, ticking off on his fingers. “You slammed my head into a steering wheel. You - ”

“Stiles, no,” says Derek, shaking his head. “I don’t - sure, you annoy me sometimes. But do you actually believe I’d hurt you?”

Stiles shrugs. “Not now.”

Derek’s touch on his shoulder is feather-light. “None of this - it’s not delightful. Not when I know how much pain you’re in.”

Stiles knows how red he must be. “It’s really not that bad,” he mumbles into his Cream of Wheat. He spreads his fingers as Derek pours himself a cup of coffee. _One, two, three, four, five._ “Last night - did we talk about drinking rainwater out of a werewolf’s print?”

“It’s one of the old stories,” says Derek, taking a seat next to Stiles, blowing on his black coffee. “You know, all the ways someone can be turned into a werewolf.”

“Yes,” says Stiles, impatient, “but did we talk about it?”

Derek takes a sip. “You wanted a bedtime story,” he says.

For a second, a split-second, Stiles considers telling Derek about his nightmare, the same one he’s been having almost nightly since the nogitsune tore through Beacon Hills and left their little pack scarred. Turns out, the hunters are real. What if Kate is, too?

_Kate is dead._

“It’s a stupid story,” Stiles complains. “Werewolves don’t have _paws_. They have - ”

“My mother did,” Derek points out.

Stiles pushes back his almost-full bowl. “I’m not hungry,” he declares.

*           *           * 

“Keys,” John mutters, patting his chest pockets as he scans his messy desk. “Keys.” He’s going to be late to PT.

There’s a knock on his office door. “Sheriff,” says Deputy Arroyo, tone brisk, “the mayor is here.”

John’s face falls. “Ah, crap,” he says, dropping back into his chair. “Send him in.” He might have thirty seconds, a minute, that he should probably use to straighten his desk. Instead, he sends a clumsy, apologetic text to Derek. He’s not making it to Stiles’ session now.

Ross Carson is a tall, bald black man with a neat mustache and perpetually stern face. He’d been an ally, once. But John suspects those days are over. “Ross,” he says wearily, rising to his feet. He’s been here since this time yesterday, and his rumpled uniform stands in stark contrast to the mayor’s smart tan suit.

Carson ignores the sheriff’s extended hand. “What the hell is going on, Stilinski?” he demands. “I was in Napa when I got the call about the Gas Mart. Do you have any idea how long it’s been since Eloise and I were able to get away for a few days?”

John locks his jaw. He’s not interested in talking vacation time with the man who’d complained about how much PTO John had used while Stiles was in the hospital. “I’ll be sure to check your calendar next time,” he says coolly.

Carson glares at the sheriff. “You know what I meant,” he says, running his fingers along John’s desk and hovering over the nameplate. “Even if state police conclude it was an accident, it’s not the kind of PR we need right now.”

“Is that what this is about?” John crosses his arms. “You’re mad I called them in, aren’t you?”

Now the mayor’s inspecting a framed photo of Stiles, hair short, arm slung over John’s shoulder at a department barbecue. “A lot of folks are saying you’re distracted,” Carson counters.

John snatches the photo away, places it facedown. “A lot of folks are acting like my son skinned his knee,” he replies.

Carson backpedals. “Nobody’s saying your focus shouldn’t be on your - ”

“You are,” John snaps. “Look, you know as well as I do we just don’t have the resources here to investigate an explosion that big. Yes, I probably should have called you to say I wanted to bring in Chief Forsyth. But in - ”

_“You should have called me, period.”_

John blinks. “I didn’t?” he asks, playing yesterday again in his head. The call had come in a little before two. He’d arrived on scene twenty minutes later only to find Derek already there. That’s when he’d gotten the call from Parrish, explaining everything. He’d questioned Kira off-site, then called Highway Patrol. “Shit.”

Carson takes a seat. “I haven’t forced you to take a leave of absence, John, because I still think you’re damn good at this job. But as much as I don’t want to see Wyatt in this office, you know I can’t endorse you this year, right?” 

“Right,” John mumbles. Not when he’s suing the public school district, the mayor can’t. 

“I’m truly sorry, John,” Carson says. He clears his throat, reaches forward like he wants to right the photo frame. “How’s Stiles?”

_Probably furious I’m missing PT._ “Glad to be home,” John says, though he really has no idea if his kid is.

“For what it’s worth - ”

“Will I still have a job?” John interrupts. “If Brown wins, do I still have a job?”

Carson rubs his mouth. “I’ll see what I can do,” he says finally.

*           *           * 

Derek smells the freshly-cut grass as soon as he turns onto the Stilinskis’ street, an old mower spluttering in the stifling July heat. He glances over at Stiles, sure the rumbling engine will wake the sleeping teen, but he doesn’t stir even as it hums louder, louder, _louder_. Derek is starting to get irritated - Stiles needs rest, not all this racket - when he realizes it’s Parrish trying to tackle the Stilinskis’ overgrown yard. 

The sweat-soaked deputy waves, letting the mower die. “Sorry,” he says, mopping his forehead with the hem of his faded t-shirt. “I thought I’d be done before you got back with Stiles, but - ” he shrugs helplessly at the tall grass. “Need a hand?”

“Nah, I got him,” says Derek, walking around to the passenger door and nudging Stiles awake.

Stiles groans. “Are we - ” he rubs his stump through his gym shorts “ - back at the house?”

Derek unfolds Stiles’ wheelchair. “Unbuckle your seat belt,” he says, hooking his arms beneath the teen’s. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Parrish bent low over the mower, desperate not to make eye contact with either of them. “How are you feeling?”

Stiles sneezes. 

“I can finish up later,” the deputy pipes.

But the foot-tall grass stands in sharp contrast to the neighbors’ aggressively manicured lawns. Derek reaches into the back seat and slings his gym bag over his shoulder. “I can help. Let me get Stiles settled.”

“You don’t - ”

Parrish falters under the werewolf’s stare. Derek pushes Stiles up the wheelchair ramp. “Is that OK?” he asks once they’re inside. 

Stiles runs a knuckle over his bottom lip. “Yeah?” he asks, quizzical, like he doesn’t know why it wouldn’t be.

Derek drums his fingers on the counter. “I mean, are you going to be OK in here by yourself?”

Stiles is already headed for the living room. “I’ll try not to fall off the couch,” he tells Derek in the same waspish tone he’d used with his physical therapist.

Derek doesn’t say anything, just listens for the squeak of the wheelchair brake and the soft _plop_ as Stiles transfers. Derek ducks into the Stilinskis’ laundry room to swap his jeans for shorts. He half-considers telling Stiles to holler if he needs help, then decides he’s better off keeping an ear on the sullen teen. He shucks his henley before heading outside.

Parrish is standing at the workbench, restringing the weedwhacker. He crosses his arms when he sees Derek, covering the big, block letters that read, “JAKE’S BACHELOR BASH 2009.” At one point, the shirt had sleeves. Derek has to wonder if they lasted the whole first night Parrish wore it. “How’s Stiles?”

“He’s - ”

But the best the werewolf can come up with is a noncommittal noise.

Parrish doesn’t move. “He was rubbing his leg.” 

Derek shrugs, reaching past the deputy for a pair of hedge trimmers. “He does that a lot.”

“ _Phantom limb pain_ ,” Parrish blurts.

Derek turns. “What?”

Parrish’s ears are red. “My buddy Jake,” he mumbles, “used to rub his leg like that.” 

It takes Derek a second to work out what the deputy is trying to tell him. “This is the one who lost his leg in Afghanistan?” Parrish nods. “Well, what happened?”

“His doctor at the VA suggested he try mirror therapy,” Parrish replies. He clears his throat. “It, uh, really helped Jake.”

_Mirror therapy_. “I’ll tell the sheriff,” Derek calls, en route to the Stilinskis’ overgrown shrubs. He doesn’t look up until the weedwhacker begins to whir on the far side of the house. Inside, Stiles is finally drifting off.

The weedwhacker stops. “Derek!” Parrish hollers. “Can you come take a look at something?” 

Parrish’s heart is beating a shade too fast for Derek’s liking, so he snaps the shears closed and walks around the house’s perimeter to where the deputy stands, staring at the bullet hole in the Stilinskis’ kitchen window.

“Does that look like a - ”

“ _Yes_ ,” Derek interrupts.

“ - a bullet hole?” Parrish rubs his mouth as Derek nods. “Someone shot at the sheriff’s house?” 

Derek flexes his bicep, remembering the sting of Severo’s round. “You know about hunters?” he asks. It’s Parrish’s turn to nod. “There’s a family of them in town, the Calaveras.”

“There’s a family of hunters in town,” Parrish repeats slowly. He sounds skeptical. “What do they want?”

“Scott,” says Derek, and he begins hacking at the shrubbery for a way out of the conversation.

But Parrish isn’t having it. He grabs Derek’s arm. “Will you - ” 

Derek shakes off the deputy’s grip. He glares, careful not to flash his eyes.

For his part, Parrish looks startled and takes a step back. “Listen, Hale, I might not know much about werewolves, but I know a bullet hole when I see one. If these hunters are willing to shoot up the sheriff’s house looking for Scott - ”

“It was for me,” Derek grits.

“ _What?_ ”

“The bullet was for me,” Derek says, voice rough. “We’re handling it.”

“Who? You and Scott?” Before Derek can reply, Parrish continues, “Because no offense, Scott’s just a kid.”

Derek’s patience is growing thin. He thinks he can hear Stiles stirring. “He’s the alpha,” he says with a shrug.

“He’s 17,” Parrish says pointedly.

“How old were you?” 

“What?”

“When you enlisted,” Derek asks, impatient, “how old were you?”

There’s a long pause. “Eighteen,” Parrish volunteers. “I was 18.”

“Like I said, _we’re handling it_.”

***           *           ***

“Nope,” Melissa tells Nancy before the other nurse can ask her to stay, passing the front desk on her way out the door, “not tonight.”

Nancy groans. “Just a few more hours,” she pleads. “We’re so short-staffed, and you _know_ the full moon always brings out the crazies.”

Melissa freezes. She’d forgotten all about the full moon. “Nancy, I’m sorry,” she says, sighing. “I told the sheriff I’d check on Stiles.”

“Uh huh,” says Nancy, lips pursed. “Melissa, I used to be able to count on you when I needed someone to stay late or come in early. But the last two pay periods, you didn’t even work your mandatory minimum overtime.”

“I know,” says Melissa, swallowing the lump that’s risen in her throat. She doesn’t need Nancy to remind her she’s barely scraping by. “And Nancy, I promise, just - give me a few more weeks, OK?”

The head nurse doesn’t look like she believes Melissa. “Have a good night,” Nancy says as the doors to the ambulance bay swing open.

“My cue,” says Melissa, jerking a thumb over her shoulder and beating a hasty retreat. Outside, the moon is bright. Now she remembers hearing on the radio that the full moon in July is called the Buck Moon, named for the time of year when male deer get their new antlers. She walks a little bit faster across the dark, deserted parking lot, dialing Scott on her cell phone. “Hey,” she tells her son’s voicemail as she unlocks the car door. “I’m on my way over.”

She’s about to throw her purse in the passenger seat when she sees the barrel of the gun. The hunter, Severo Calavera, licks his lips as he leans forward. “Won’t you get in?” he asks, and he points the rifle at her head.

*           *           *

John’s been staring at the same page in the gas station incident report for so long words have lost all meaning. He licks his thumb, flips to the next page. He’d spent two hours talking to Ken Yukimura that afternoon and still has no idea how he’s going to explain away Kira’s car at the scene of the crime. He can see Parrish hunched over his desk in the bullpen and half-considers calling him in for a brainstorming session. As if on cue, the deputy rises to his feet. Except, he’s not headed for the sheriff’s office. John cranes his neck.

He hears, “You can’t - ” a second before his door opens with a bang. Melissa, white-faced and still wearing her scrubs, barges in, Parrish on her heels. “Sheriff,” she says. Her hands shake.

John rises, quickly spinning his finger and indicating to Parrish to pull the door shut. “Melissa,” he says, startled to see her at the station. She’s supposed to be at home with his kid. He feels his stomach sink at the thought of Stiles. “What’s - ” 

“He had a gun.”

Now John is grabbing Melissa’s arm and leading her to the couch. “Who had a gun, Melissa?”

“Severo Calavera.”

“Severo - Severo Calavera had a gun?” Melissa nods. “Where?”

“In my car. He was waiting for me.”

“Sir - ”

John shushes Parrish. “Melissa, I need you to tell me what happened,” he prompts.

Slowly, Melissa nods again. “I got off work,” she says. “I called Scott to say I was going to come by, check on Stiles, like you asked. When I unlocked my car, Severo Calavera was sitting in the backseat, holding a sawed-off shotgun. He told me to get in. I did. He told me to head west. I did. He told me to let him out a few blocks from here. I came - straight here.”

“Did he say anything to you? Anything about Scott, about - ”

“No. He just barked directions. I didn’t - it wasn’t until he got out that it registered I was right by the station.”

The sheriff hands Parrish his cell phone. “Call Scott,” he instructs. “Tell him we need him here.”

Parrish doesn’t take the phone. “What about Stiles?” he asks.

John rubs his mouth. He’d called Scott, then Melissa, when Derek finally had to go. He doesn’t really know what to do with his sick kid if both McCalls are needed here.

He’s so, so relieved Melissa suggests, “I bet Lydia would sit with him.” 

“Lydia,” Parrish repeats, like he’s not a fan of this idea. But he finally takes the phone from John. “Do you want me to have a car swing by your house, sir, make sure nothing’s amiss?”

“That won’t be - ” John stops. He clears his throat. “Good instinct, son.” 

Parrish pulls the door shut behind him. That’s when John notices Melissa shivering. He stands, grabs the jacket he hasn’t worn in weeks off his chair. He drapes it over her shoulders.

“Thanks,” she tells him.

“He really didn’t say anything?” John asks, settling next to her on the worn couch.

Melissa shakes her head. “Believe me, Sheriff, I’ve been replaying it in my head since I walked in. I didn’t - he must have wanted - ”

“To scare you,” John supplies flatly. It makes his blood boil.

Her smile is forced. “Well, he succeeded.” 

John exhales into his hands. “God, Melissa, I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “I should have - after the Calaveras showed up the other night, I could have assigned an - ”

“No, you couldn’t have,” Melissa interrupts. _Because no one can know werewolves are real_. It goes unspoken.

Parrish returns with a knock. “Lydia’s en route,” he tells John. “Mrs. McCall, I hope it’s OK I told Scott to wait until she arrived.”

“Of course,” Melissa says quickly.

“Thank you, Parrish,” says John. He waits for the deputy to leave. Parrish doesn’t. “Something you’d like to add, son?”

“Sir, are you aware Severo Calavera has racked up a slew of weapons charges in this country?”

The first thing John had done two night ago was run the Calaveras’ names, but he isn’t expecting Parrish to have done the same. “Yes, I am.” 

“Isn’t it time - ” Parrish casts a sidelong glance at Melissa “ - to involve Agent McCall?”

John watches her face fall. “Not yet, Parrish,” he says, brushing past the deputy to hold open his office door. “Let me know when Scott gets here.”

There’s something about Parrish’s grim expression that sets the sheriff’s teeth on edge.

*           *           *

The moon hangs low and full in the sky, its power thrumming through Derek’s veins. It raises his hackles, makes him feel dark, dangerous. That part hasn’t changed, even though he won’t act on his animal impulses. He won’t even go for a run. Not tonight. Not with the Calaveras in town.

Derek turns on his heel. “How are you feeling?” he asks Malia, stepping out of the moonlight and into the shadows. The werecoyote is sitting on his sofa, hair falling like a curtain over her face. 

Her eyes are bright blue when she looks up. “I think you need to lock me up,” she rasps.

She’d gotten through the last full moon just fine, without him even, but Derek hadn’t wanted to take any chances with hunters on the prowl. Malia snarls as he reaches for the chains. Seems his instinct had been right.

Derek is stronger than Malia, but pinning the werecoyote’s arms behind her back still leaves his forearms covered in deep gouges that don’t heal as quickly when he’s so busy fighting off the moon’s influence. She’s shifted when she raises her head again. Derek feels faint. It has nothing to do with the blood dripping through his fingers, either. The werecoyote looks so much like a teenage Laura in her beta form it’s always a punch in the gut. 

Except for her eyes. Malia’s eyes are blue, like his. _Killers_. She snaps her jaw with such force one of her teeth cracks.

Derek winces. He’s not so old he can’t remember sitting in homeroom the morning after a full moon, jaw aching, running his tongue over new teeth that didn’t quite feel like his yet. “Malia - ”

Malia rattles her chains. “ _Derek_ ,” she hisses.

“C’mon, Malia,” Derek urges. “Say it with me. Alpha, beta, omega. Alpha, beta, omega. Alpha, beta - ”

This time, the werecoyote lunges with enough force to bend the pipe she’s tethered to. “I was an omega before,” Malia spits.

“I know,” says Derek, taking a cautious step forward. “But you’re part of a pack now. You’re a beta. Scott’s beta. You don’t have to do it alone.”

But Derek’s words, meant to be comforting, only make Malia scratch and bite more. She snarls at him, the old pipes creaking in protest. Derek sets his jaw. _Alpha, beta, omega_. He can’t help if he, too, loses control.

“ _Scott_ ,” Malia breathes, restraints cutting into her wrists. Derek’s own wounds still haven’t healed, and the pungent-sweet smell of blood hangs heavy in the air. “He’s not my alpha.”

Derek watches with trepidation as brown water begins to trickle from the bent pipe. “Yes, he is.”

“ _Then where is he?_ ” Malia wants to know, gnashing at the chains with her teeth. Derek thinks he might have five, ten minutes before she pulls herself free.

He calls Scott. 

“I need you at the loft,” Derek says, brusque, when the alpha answers. “Malia’s out of control.”

“Malia’s - ” Scott starts, and there’s someone in the background talking to the alpha, too. Sheriff Stilinski, Derek’s pretty sure. The younger werewolf clears his throat. “Malia’s out of control?”

There’s the scrape of metal on metal on Derek’s end of the line. “Yeah,” he says, slowly curling his fingers into a fist. He’ll have to shift soon. He just hopes he can hold Malia back. “How soon can you get here?” 

“I can’t - I don’t - I mean, I’m at the sheriff’s station,” Scott says. “Severo Calavera pulled a gun on my mom in the hospital parking lot.”

“He _what_?” Derek says sharply. “You know what, Scott? Never mind. I’ll call Peter.”

And he hangs up the call.

But before he can flick his claws, Malia’s hand closes around his wrist. The corners of Derek’s mouth turn up in a snarl. That’s when he notices Malia’s nails. They’re blunt, bitten, flecked with orange polish - the nails of a teenage girl, not a werecoyote.

“Don’t call Peter,” she begs.

Derek’s eyes flash. “You’re sure?” he asks, eyeing the now-spraying pipe. The missing section dangles off Malia’s wrist. 

Malia nods. “I think I need to sit down,” she tells him, and he leads her, hunched and shivering, to the couch.

“Do you want a blanket?” Derek asks. Before she can reply, he goes to his bed and grabs one. He drapes it across her shoulders and takes a seat next to her.

“Thanks.”

The silence stretches between them. Derek drops his elbows to his knees, clasping his hands together. He clears his throat. “You didn’t want me to call Peter.”

“No.”

“Enough you were able to fight the shift.”

“Yes.”

Derek quirks an eyebrow. “Any particular reason?”

Malia, who’s been staring at her still-human hands, shrugs. “No reason,” she says, her heart beginning to hammer.

Instead of calling her out for lying, Derek tells her, “When I told you Peter would invariably want something, my intention was to warn you, not to keep you from your father.”

Malia’s eyes flash blue. “My father is Henry Tate,” she snaps, lip quivering as her eyes return to their usual shade of brown. “Will it always hurt like this?”

Derek glances out the window. _Yes_. “It gets easier with time.”

“Right now,” says Malia, “what’s it feel like to you?”

“Like an itch I can’t scratch.”

The werecoyote is panting again. But this time, she doesn’t shift. “I don’t think Peter would like the anchor I found,” she tells Derek. When he doesn’t ask, she volunteers, “Redemption.”

“That’s what you’re using?”

“Scott gave me a second chance,” says Malia. “I need - I _have_ to do better this time. For Mom and Caitlin.”

Derek nods. He thinks about the anger he’s used for so long to tether himself to humanity and reaches for Malia. “Come here,” he says.

At first the werecoyote hesitates. But then she drops her head on Derek’s shoulder. The floral shampoo she uses is the same drugstore brand Laura always bought. She feels like pack, like family. Malia draws her feet up under her. Her nose twitches.

“Blood?” Derek asks.

“No,” says Malia slowly, and it occurs to Derek she can probably smell Stiles on his shirt. But she doesn’t pull away as each of their hearts beats a shade too fast.

*           *           *

Scott swallows the lump rising in his throat as Derek hangs up the call. “Just werewolf stuff,” he tells his mother and the sheriff. They appear unconvinced. “Really,” he adds, pocketing his cell, “Derek just wanted me to know how it was going with Malia.”

He hopes it’s the truth.

John catches Scott’s elbow. “Hey, hey,” he says, voice low. “Grab your mother a cup of coffee, will you?”

The alpha nods, even though he doesn’t like the look the two parents exchange. He slips out of the sheriff’s office, runs a hand through his hair as he exhales a long, shuddering breath. Stiles had been furious when Scott left him with Lydia instead of taking him to the station. Scott pulls a Styrofoam cup off the stack and fills it with bitter coffee.

He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Parrish is saying to someone on the other end of the line. “Stilinski isn’t the problem here. The problem is - ”

Scott busies himself with pink sweetener packets as another deputy wanders past.

“Of course, sir,” says Parrish. There’s a pause. “Yes. It’s Severo. S-E-V-E-R-O. Calavera. C-A- ”

OK, so maybe the call isn’t about Stiles’ dad. Scott picks up the too-full coffee cup and begins to walk carefully back to the sheriff’s office with it. That’s when he hears Parrish say, “No, Agent, I didn’t - dammit, McCall, you’re not listening - ”

Scott ends the call with one finger, eyes glowing red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to my tireless betas (editors, not baby werewolves), [lazaefair](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lazaefair) and [frommybookbook](http://archiveofourown.org/users/frommybookbook).
> 
> I would love to connect with you on [Tumblr](http://em2mb.tumblr.com)! Please, ask me questions and enjoy the bonus content between chapters.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can hear you, you know,” Stiles interrupts. Even the short trip across the kitchen leaves him panting. Scott throws his father’s hand off so he can help Stiles back to the table. But his friend insists, “I’m OK, Scotty. Really.”
> 
> “Well,” Rafe says, once Stiles is situated at the table again, “It’s good to - ”
> 
> “We can skip the bullshit,” Stiles interrupts. “You’re sorry I lost my leg, I’m sorry I lost my leg. Tacos?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bear trap bear trap bear trap.

“Yo, Parrish,” calls Deputy Arroyo, jerking one thumb over her shoulder and tucking the other in her gun belt, “want anything from the Express Mart?”

She’s not actually offering, and Parrish knows it. “Have fun,” he says, forcing a smile. He glances at the clock. It’s nearly midnight. He rubs his eyes. It’s his fourth overnight in as many days.

“You look tired, Deputy Parrish.”

Parrish blinks. But he’s not seeing things. Lydia is standing in front of his desk, arms crossed. “I’m supposed to have to buzz you back after ten,” he tells her.

“Please,” says Lydia, a pair of oversized sunglasses dangling from two fingers, “like Stiles hasn’t told all of us the code.”

“What do you want, Lydia?”

Now she’s inspecting his to-do list: AUGUST RENT (underlined twice, because he forgot to drop it off that morning), mail Sue’s birthday present, incident report - Smith robbery. “I need a favor.”

“A favor,” Parrish repeats, scratching his chin. “What kind of favor?”

“You can look up death certificates.”

It’s not a question, but Parrish answers it like one. “If it’s for a case, sure.”

Lydia purses her lips. “I need to know who died in Beacon Hills on May 12.”

Parrish shouldn’t be this willing to help a pretty high schooler. “Beacon Hills or Beacon County?” he asks, cheeks reddening.

Even Lydia looks surprised he gave in so easily. “Beacon County,” she says thoughtfully.

It takes Parrish a minute to pull up the coroner’s website. He hesitates for a half-second, then logs in with Stilinski’s credentials. “You said May 12?” Lydia nods. He plugs in the date. _No reports_. He shakes his head. “No one.”

Lydia frowns. “That can’t be right.” He tilts the screen so she can see it. “Try May 13.”

Parrish does. _No reports_. “I can search by name,” he offers.

“I don’t know the name,” Lydia snaps. She swallows. “Sorry.”

“If you think a crime was committed, Lydia, you should tell Stiles’ dad.”

Lydia crosses her arms. “I think the sheriff has enough on his mind right now, don’t you?” Parrish glances at his boss’ shuttered office, but he doesn’t reply. He’s barely exchanged two words with the sheriff since calling Agent McCall in on the Calaveras business. “Why are you here, anyway?”

“I work here,” he points out.

Lydia smiles wanly. “Yes, but the sheriff’s best deputies don’t usually get stuck on overnights.”

Parrish flicks his tongue to wet his dry mouth. “Lydia - ”

The scanner interrupts him. “Reported 502 heading east on Coronado. Who is responding?”

The redhead is gone when he turns back around.

*           *           *

“Stop that,” Derek tells Stiles, who’s jiggling his good leg nervously as they wait for his session to begin at the rehabilitation center.

Stiles stops twitching. Then he starts again. “No,” he retorts.

Derek reaches across the magazine he’s been reading and presses down on Stiles’ knee. “Quit it,” he admonishes.

“Why do you care?” Stiles asks sullenly, but he doesn’t keep bouncing after Derek withdraws his hand.

“Because,” says Derek, catching a whiff of stress sweat coming off the teen, “you’re making me nervous.”

Stiles snorts. “Well, then, _pardon_ _me_.”

“What are you so worked up about,” Derek grits, knowing full well the teen won’t answer. Turns out, he doesn’t need Stiles to.

“Stiles!” chirps the khaki-clad Bridget, skidding to a stop in front of them in her sneakers. “Ready to get your new leg?”

Stiles shrugs, dragging himself up on his walker. He’s finally starting to put on muscle again. “OK,” he mutters. Derek usually hangs back at PT, but today Bridget catches him off guard.

“Derek, right?”

Derek stares at her outstretched hand for several seconds before shaking it. “Yeah, Derek Hale.”

“I know,” says Bridget, and she bites her lip. “I was friends with your sister.”

Now Derek sees it plainly, how ten years have sharpened Bridget’s round cheeks. She’d been a regular at the Hale house when Laura was in middle school, giggling girls trying not to burn their ears with the curling iron. He’d always complained about how much hairspray they used. “Yeah, uh, I remember you.”

She motions him to follow her back. The balding, middle-aged prosthetist is sitting on a stool in front of Stiles, the teen’s new leg outstretched on a nearby table. Derek finds its height jarring. Of course, Stiles is almost as tall as he is, but he’s gotten used to seeing the teen hunched over his walker. He’s so busy staring at the prosthesis he almost forgets Bridget is _right_ there.

“I was sorry to hear about Laura,” she says quietly. “Nate and I wanted to do something, but we weren’t sure - ”

“I don’t want to talk about my sister,” Derek interrupts, chest tightening. He jerks his head roughly at Stiles, who’s wincing as a red-faced Hank tugs a rubbery sleeve over his short left leg. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Bridget assures Derek. “Liners take some practice.”

Still, Derek finds himself stepping forward and resting a hand on Stiles’ shoulder.

The teen whips his head around. “What are you - oh,” Stiles says as Derek’s thumb settles on bare skin just above the collar of his t-shirt. He bats the werewolf’s hand away.

“This is the double-wall system we talked about,” Hank tells Stiles. “See the laminated end cap? I’m going to push the socket onto your residual limb. You may feel a pinch - ”

Judging by the slightly strangled noise Stiles makes, it’s more than a pinch. “No, no, it’s cool,” he insists. “Seriously, I’m all - ”

But Hank has already pulled the socket off. “Back to the drawing board,” he tells Stiles ruefully.

“OK,” Stiles mumbles, rubbing his stump. He won’t make eye contact with Derek. “Can I do the parallel bars today?”

Bridget squeezes his shoulder. “Of course,” she says. “Derek, why don’t you come back with us?”

Even though the werewolf knows Stiles would prefer he didn’t, Derek finds himself saying, “OK.”

Bridget tells Stiles to head over to the therapy table. “Poor kid,” she tells Derek.

“Poor kid?” Derek repeats, watching as Stiles hobbles across the room.

Bridget blinks. “That’s the third socket Hank’s built him that hasn’t worked.”

“Why not?”

There’s a slight pause before Bridget says, “You know how high his amputation is.”

Derek hears Stiles land on the therapy table with a thump. “What happens if Hank can’t figure it out?”

“Then I’ll focus Stiles’ therapy on the mobility aids available to him.”

Derek bristles. “And what, he doesn’t get a prosthesis?”

Bridget shrugs. “He’d still be able to use a walker, or crutches. Some amputees actually prefer - ”

“No,” Derek interrupts. “Not Stiles.”

Her voice is soft. “Derek,” she says, “I can’t - it’s not like - his leg - ”

“I don’t expect his leg to grow back,” Derek snaps.

“That’s not what - ”

But Derek makes a point of ignoring her as he stalks off. “What were you and Bridget talking about?” Stiles wants to know, shrugging out of his hoodie. Derek takes it from him. “It looked intense.”

“Nothing,” Derek lies as the therapist joins them. He clears his throat. “It’s good to see you out of the chair.”

“Yeah?” says Stiles, and for some reason, his heart starts beating a little bit faster. “Well, just wait until I get my bionic leg.”

Derek’s not really sure why the teen feels the need to lie to him.

*           *           *

Scott’s watching the clock tick toward 7:00 with an increasing sense of dread, made worse by the fact the sheriff’s late to pick Stiles up.

“I thought your dad’s shift ended at 6,” he says in what he hopes is a casual voice at 6:46.

Stiles frowns, grabs his phone. “What time is it?” he says, swiping an obnoxiously complicated pattern to unlock it. Or maybe Scott’s just jealous of his best friend’s new Galaxy S3 when his phone has a crack down the screen. “Uh, he’s going to be late. I must have missed the text.”

“How late?” Scott presses.

The screen of Stiles' phone darkens. “He didn’t say.” There’s a pause. “Is it - a problem?”

Scott scratches the back of his head. “I'm supposed to be having dinner with my dad.”

“Oh.” There’s an uncomfortable moment where Scott can feel the vibrations of Stiles’ good leg bouncing under the table. “Do you want me to - I could go hang out in your room?”

Stiles had shown up that afternoon sans wheelchair, his second day not using it, and almost bit it just getting through the door. “Of course not,” says Scott quickly. “You can eat with us. He always buys too much food.”

“I’ll text Dad, see when he thinks he’ll be - ”

Scott reaches out werewolf-quick and plucks Stiles’ phone from his hand. “Seriously, Stiles. I just figured you wouldn’t want to deal with him. It’s fine.”

Stiles looks unconvinced as he picks up his pencil, which he immediately begins to drum on his math book. “If you’re sure,” he says.

Rafe knocks at 6:59. Scott yanks the door open and calls over his shoulder, “You should know, Stiles is here.”

Rafe doesn’t bother to wipe his feet on the mat. “Of _course_ he is,” he says, sighing. “And would it kill you to say hello?”

“If you track anything in, it’s your funeral,” Scott fires back. In the kitchen, Stiles is hunched over his calculus book, but Scott’s pretty sure it’s an act while his best friend comes up with his opening line. Rafe, now sock-clad, pads in a few seconds later.

"Oh man, I love Casa Azteca,” says Stiles before Rafe can open his mouth. “But I hope you didn't forget the queso." He turns to Scott. “He usually forgets the queso.”

Rafe sets two plastic bags on the table. “Stiles,” he says evenly. “It’s good to see you. Usually your Jeep would be parked out front - ” he drops his voice “ - like a warning."

Stiles is already rummaging around in one of the bags. “Can't drive the Jeep anymore, can I?” Before Rafe can answer, Stiles nudges Scott. “Hey, look, he actually remembered to get guac this time.”

Scott has to stifle a snort.

Rafe bats Stiles’ graphite-smudged hand away. “Go wash up,” he chides.

There’s a beat. “Uh, Scotty, I’m going to need some help,” Stiles says finally.

Scott’s already on it. He wraps a hand around Stiles’ bicep, lets his friend grab his shoulder, hauls Stiles out of the chair. He can feel Rafe’s stare as he unfolds Stiles’ walker. “Do you - ”

“I got it,” says Stiles. He takes a little hop forward, just enough to get him out from behind the table.

Rafe’s stare turns into an open-mouthed gape. In a single, horrible instant, Scott realizes his dad didn’t know, not until that moment.

“You lost your leg,” Rafe says flatly.

Stiles glares. “Yeah.”

Rafe catches Scott’s elbow when he tries to follow Stiles to the sink. “You didn’t tell me,” he hisses. “You set me - ”

“I didn’t set you up for anything,” Scott interjects. “It’s not like it wasn’t in the papers.”

“I had a _right_ to - ”

“I can hear you, you know,” Stiles interrupts. Even the short trip across the kitchen leaves him panting. Scott throws his father’s hand off so he can help Stiles back to the table. But his friend insists, “I’m OK, Scotty. Really.”

“Well,” Rafe says, once Stiles is situated at the table again, “It’s good to - ”

“We can skip the bullshit,” Stiles interrupts. “You’re sorry I lost my leg, I’m sorry I lost my leg. Tacos?”

Rafe tries to ask Scott about school, about Kira, even about lacrosse, but the alpha only gives him one-word answers. It’s only after Rafe’s _OK fine be that way_ look that Scott realizes his mistake.

“So Stiles,” Rafe says, switching gears, “how’s your rehab going?”

The bite of enchilada on Stiles’ fork falls to the plate with a wet plop. “Don’t answer him,” says Scott, glaring at his dad.

Stiles dabs at his mouth with a napkin. “No, it’s fine,” he says, nodding like he’s trying to work up the courage to respond. “Uh, it’s OK. I’m still not sure when I’ll get my prosthesis.”

“They’ll be able to fit you with one?” says Rafe, and he sounds so surprised it makes Scott snap his head up.

“Of course they will,” the werewolf tells his father, irritated. “Why wouldn’t they?”

There’s something about the way Stiles drags his fork through the pool of red sauce on his plate Scott doesn’t like. “Actually, my amputation is kinda high,” he tells Scott. “They’re having trouble building a socket that’ll fit.”

“Oh,” says Scott, suddenly anxious. He’d heard his mom whispering about Stiles’ residual limb back at the hospital, but not once had it occurred to him his friend might not get a new leg. “But they’ll figure it out, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Stiles quickly. Too quickly. “I’ll be walking in no time.”

Scott hears the sheriff’s cruiser pulling into the drive long before John knocks. “Stiles? Scott?” he calls, the old boards creaking as he makes his way into the kitchen. “Are you - ”

His entire demeanor changes when he notices Rafe at the table. He crosses his arms. “Agent McCall,” he says gruffly.

“Stilinski,” says Rafe, extending his hand. He holds it there for one second, two, awkwardly drops it to his side. Next to Scott, Stiles is barely able to contain his delight. Rafe clears his throat. “Stiles was just telling us about PT.”

John circles the table, starts unfolding Stiles’ walker. “Was he,” he says. “You ready to go?”

Stiles nods. Scott knows, intellectually, that the sheriff is older than his dad. But it’s not until this moment, watching John grimace under Stiles’ weight, that Scott sees how grey the sheriff’s hair has gotten.

Scott scoots his chair back. “Here - ”

Rafe rises, too. “Let me - ”

“I’ve got this!” John snaps. He stares at both of them, wild-eyed, then swallows hard. “Right, Stiles?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Stiles mumbles. “Uh, thanks for dinner.”

“Don’t mention it,” says Rafe.

Time seems to stop as the Stilinskis slowly, torturously, make their way out to the sheriff’s car. They’re no sooner out the door than Rafe declares, “I bet you're pleased with yourself.”

Scott stands up so fast he tips over a styrofoam to-go box, sending clumps of cheese and shreds of lettuce to the floor. “Really, Dad?” Scott snorts. “You think this has been fun for me?”

“You could have told me - ”

“You could have _paid attention_ ,” Scott spits. “Everyone knows Stiles lost his leg. _Everyone.”_

Rafe huffs, “I’m not exactly in Beacon Hills full time, Scott.”

The alpha doesn’t bother cleaning up the mess he made. “I wish you weren’t here now,” Scott shouts, thundering up the stairs. “I wish you’d stay gone.”

*           *           *

Melissa just wants to kick off her shoes and put her feet up after a long shift. Instead, she walks in on World War III.

“Scott, open the door,” Rafe yells upstairs. There’s an overturned carton of Mexican food on the kitchen floor. Melissa bends down to pick it up as her ex-husband hollers, “I mean it, Scott!”

She grips the bannister tightly. “What seems to be the problem?” she calls.

Rafe, who’s been pounding on Scott’s bedroom door, pauses mid-knock. “Our son is refusing to come out,” he tells her.

“Downstairs,” Melissa replies, pointing.

“Melissa - ”

“I said, _downstairs.”_

He swallows, nods, brushes past her. Melissa waits until she hears him skulking in the kitchen, then leans against her son’s door. “Talk to me, Scott.”

There’s a thump, then Scott hauls the door open. “He insulted Stiles,” Scott declares, his nostrils flared.

“He insulted - ” But it’s hardly incredulous. Melissa glances over her shoulder and ushers Scott into his room. She sits on the edge of his unmade bed, but Scott paces as he tells her the story.

“He can’t just walk back into our lives whenever he feels like it,” Scott rages, clenching his fists. “I don’t know why he’s even here.”

It’s been almost a month since Severo Calavera took her on a terrifying joyride, and Melissa still isn’t sleeping. She stares at her folded hands. “Scott, it’s his job.”

“His job sucks,” Scott says, and he flops backwards on the bed next to her.

“I’ll talk to him,” Melissa promises.

Downstairs, Rafe is aggressively sweeping the kitchen. He glares at her. “Well? What’s he have to say for himself?”

There’s a single taco left in the takeout container on the table, and Melissa helps herself. “Rafe, he’s right. Everyone knows Stiles lost his leg. It’s been all over the papers - ”

Rafe whacks the dustpan, hard, against the side of the trashcan. “I already told Scott,” he says, “I don’t live in Beacon Hills anymore.”

To his credit, Rafe had called in a panic the night of the bus crash, a big enough tragedy it made the Bay Area news. He’d been terrified Scott was hurt - or worse. But once she’d assured him their son was fine, he hadn’t asked about Stiles. He’d yelled at her for not calling immediately.

She wipes her fingers on a napkin, choosing her words carefully. “You can’t have it both ways, Rafe.”

He pulls out the chair across from her. “Is that what you think this is about?” he asks, sullen.

“Maybe it’s time the Bureau starts paying for a hotel.”

Rafe squirms. “I can’t ask for that just yet,” he admits.

Melissa, who’d been about to shovel a dollop of guacamole into her mouth, freezes. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing. I’ve said too much.” He tugs on his collar.

“Rafe - ”

“You know I can’t talk about an ongoing investigation, Melissa,” he interrupts.

But two can play at that game. She scoots her chair back. “Ask your boss if you can expense a hotel,” she calls from the stairs. “I’m sick of you two fighting.”

*           *           *

John rubs his temple, licks his lips, reads the letter again. _Dear Mr. Stilinski,_ it begins, _I am writing to inform you your request for coverage has been denied. Having reviewed Claim No. 96-0578, it does not appear a high-activity knee control frame is medically necessary at this time._

Melissa’s hand bats the paper away. “Stop it,” she tells him. “Forget that stupid letter. We’re - we’ll figure this out. Insurance companies reverse their decisions all the time on appeal.”

“Do they?” he asks, rubbing his mouth. “Do they really?”

“John.” Her touch on his elbow is light. “We _will_ figure this out. We’ll get Stiles a working leg, I promise.”

He shakes his head. “Maybe they’re right,” he says, voice hollow. “Stiles’ prosthetist hasn’t managed to build him a socket yet. Maybe his amputation is too high. Maybe - ”

But the thought of Stiles forced to limp around on crutches for the rest of his life pains John. He lets go of the letter, plucks up the bill from the prosthetist: $48,694.37.

Melissa takes that piece of paper from him, too. “Come on,” she says. “We’ve got letters from Dr. Alexander and Bridget and Mr. Montgomery saying Stiles is committed to his recovery and expected to regain a high level of mobility. He needs a leg that can keep up. Let’s just get this appeal letter written and tell them they’re paying for this thing.”

“You’re right,” John murmurs, hand dropping between them to her knee. “You’re always right.”

“Funny you should think so,” Melissa says, and she sighs.

John frowns. “What?”

She waves her hand. “It’s nothing, really. In fact, forget I said anything. You focus on Stiles.”

“C’mon, Melissa.”

There’s a pause. “What do you know about the case Rafe’s here working?”

John shakes his head. “Nothing. He won’t tell me anything. All I know is Severo Calavera threatened you - ” Melissa tenses “ - and Rafe shows up two days later.” He leaves out the part where his best deputy ignored orders not to get the feds involved.

“That’s the thing,” says Melissa. “I’m not sure he’s here on official business.”

“He’s not?”

“He and Scott got into it last night,” Melissa says. “I am just so sick of - I told Rafe it was time the Bureau started shelling out for a hotel. He told me he couldn’t ask for that, at least not yet. Maybe I’m parsing - ”

“ - but it sounds like he hasn’t been able to make the case,” John finishes, patting her leg. He realizes what he’s doing a second later, jerks his hand back. “Sorry,” he says gruffly.

But Melissa isn’t paying attention to him. “I should probably be flattered my ex-husband is so worried,” she says, and she sighs. “Mostly, I want my living room back.”

John stares at the bills stacked inches-deep on the coffee table. He wants his back, too. “Look - ”

“Let’s get this letter written,” she says softly. “Let’s get Stiles back on his feet.”

*           *           *

“She’s making me get up with the sunrise,” Kira complains, flopping back against the pillows at the head of Stiles’ bed. “Then it’s an hour of tai chi and meditation before she’ll even let me pick up my - Stiles, are you even listening?”

Stiles has been paging through the same thick, leather-bound volume all afternoon, only pausing to move from the couch to his bed to stretch out. “No,” he says, pencil wedged between his teeth. He nudges her with his knee. “Here, read this.”

“‘After killing the beast, the father and his two sons returned to La Besseyre-Saint-Mary, where they ran the local inn.’ Stiles, what _is_ this?”

Stiles taps the page with his knuckles. “Keep going.”

“‘But as word spread of their deed, Jean-Antoine began to boast he deserved credit, not his elderly father. He told all who would listen of his bravery, and for the most part, Jean-Pierre let him. Tensions escalated after the elder Argent died,’” she continues, and she sighs. It’s the third passage he’s had her read about hunters in as many days. “Stiles, why are you so interested in Allison’s family?”

Instead of answering, Stiles grabs the book. “‘Jean-Antoine, enraged his father would leave his prize money for killing the beast to Jean-Pierre, torched the inn and killed his brother,’” he reads. “‘But even Jean-Antoine couldn’t bring himself to kill his young nephew, who would become the most respected werewolf hunter of his day.’”

Kira squirms uncomfortably. Stiles’ recent obsession with the Argents just reminds her of Allison’s premature death. “Why do you care?”

“Because,” says Stiles, and he flips very fast to the back of the book, where a spidery family tree lists long-dead Argents with names such as Alis, Christophe and Catherine. “Look, he had a son. So did his son. Son. Son. Son.”

“Stiles - ”

“How do you have a _matriarchy_ with only sons?” he demands.

“Where’d you get this?” Kira wants to know. Now he’s poring over the Calaveras’ family tree. Her stomach gives a little lurch as Stiles’ finger traces the births and marriages of the Mexican hunting family, mothers and daughters whose dates of deaths all seem premature.

“Argent gave it to me.” There’s a pause. “OK, I nicked it from his bag when he was arguing with Scott yesterday. Happy?”

“Stiles?” Kira prompts.

He’s biting his thumbnail. “Uh-huh?”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with how much time Scott is spending with Argent, does it?” she asks gently.

 _“No,”_ Stiles insists, but he looks embarrassed as he snaps the book closed. He clears his throat. “You were saying something about your mom?”

Kira blinks. Right. “She keeps telling me meditation will help me see my tails, but I feel silly when I picture myself with a tail.” The kitsune pulls her knees into a half-lotus but can’t get her right foot onto her left thigh. “Ugh,” she says, falling back against his pillows.

“You look ridiculous,” Stiles informs her, grabbing her hand and helping her sit up. “Maybe it’s not a literal tail. What about a talisman?”

“Like the knives Mom used to summon the Oni?” Kira asks before she can stop herself.

Stiles bites his lip. “Yeah,” he says. “Like - ”

A door slams. “Stiles? Kira?” Scott calls from the entryway. “Where are - ”

“In here,” Stiles hollers, and Kira notices he tucks the hunting genealogy under his pillow before reaching for his walker.

The alpha appears in the doorway, carrying a to-go sack from KFC. “Why are you in here?” Scott wants to know.

Kira lets Stiles use her shoulder for balance. “His bed’s more comfortable than the couch,” she tells Scott, kissing his cheek. She takes the bag from him. “Did you check the list already?”

“Uh, I got him grilled chicken,” says Scott, following her into the kitchen, “mashed potatoes, corn, green beans - ”

Kira checks the chart on the fridge. “No gravy,” she tells Scott as he fixes Stiles’ plate. “And no corn, either. Sorry, Stiles.”

“It’s fine,” Stiles mumbles, smashing at his lumpy potatoes with a plastic fork as Scott plops down next to him, crunching a drumstick from the value bucket. Kira reaches between them to set out a Gatorade at Stiles’ place.

Scott grabs her arm. “Hey,” he says, lips brushing her ear, “maybe next time don’t - ”

“Don’t what?” Stiles interjects.

“Nothing,” Scott says quickly. Kira’s about to take a seat on Stiles’ other side when Scott asks, “You’re not going to sit next to me?”

The kitsune blinks. “I can do that,” she tells her boyfriend, and she picks up her plate. She’s no sooner sat down than Scott’s hand is rucking up her skirt. She feels her cheeks burn. _Now’s not the time,_ she mouths. His fingers dig into her thigh for a brief minute, then he lets go.

*           *           *

“Prada,” Lydia calls warningly, one eye opening behind her second most expensive pair of sunglasses as the little dog’s tags clink together far from the pool deck, “where I can see you.”

“You named your dog Prada?”

Parrish’s presence isn’t ... _unexpected_ , but she’d figured it would take the deputy a few more days to pluck up the courage to come by. “Deputy Parrish,” Lydia says silkily, swinging her legs off the chaise lounger and pulling down her sunglasses to get a good look at him. She can’t decide if he seems out of place just because he’s in civvies, or if it’s more the heavy denim Levi’s he’s wearing in the late afternoon sun.

Either way, Lydia can appreciate the way he fills out the faded Army t-shirt. Prada yaps at the deputy, tripping over Parrish’s feet until Lydia hushes her.

Parrish clears his throat. “Here,” he says, handing her the shades she’d left on his desk. It’s obvious he’s trying to look anywhere but the low-cut top of her swimsuit. “I figured they had to be yours.”

Lydia intentionally brushes the deputy’s fingers with hers as she takes the sunglasses. “They are,” she says. “I was wondering where I’d misplaced them.”

“Yeah,” says Parrish, “I probably wouldn’t think to look somewhere I’d visited in the middle of the night, either.”

The old Lydia - the one who could get Jackson to watch rom-coms every night of the week - would be pissed at Parrish for calling her out. But not anymore. The banshee leans forward and lets him get a good, long look at the cleavage he’s trying so desperately to ignore. “Says the guy wearing work boots in August.”

Parrish shrugs. “You’re tanning in a one-piece.”

Lydia’s bikini days ended when Peter savaged her on the lacrosse field. “So?”

The deputy’s face falls. “I was just - ” he mutters, his shirt riding up as he crosses his arms. His sidearm is tucked just inside his waistband. “Never mind.”

“You didn’t just come here to return my sunglasses,” Lydia says flatly.

“No,” Parrish admits. “I need - answers.”

She plucks off her sunglasses, tosses them aside. She wants to study every inch of his face. “And what makes you think I can provide them?”

“Because you’re - ” Lydia is pretty sure he’s remembering having to catch her in his apartment the night the berserker attacked “ - like Scott.”

She smirks. “I’m not a werewolf, Deputy.”

“Then what are you?”

Lydia is glad she put on makeup before heading out to sit poolside. “A banshee,” she says, letting her red-rouge lips hang open.

“A banshee,” Parrish repeats.

“You shouldn’t be surprised,” says Lydia. “You knew this town was overrun with werewolves.”

“No, it’s just - ” Parrish shakes his head, lowering himself onto the chaise next to her even though he hasn’t been invited to take a seat. Prada is still underfoot, and he absently scoops her up, rubbing the little dog’s head with his knuckles. “So that’s it? Your superpower is predicting death?”

Now Lydia is thinking about the five good-looking soldiers in the photo, the three who didn’t make it home. “I wouldn’t call it a superpower.”

“Then what is it?”

 _A curse._ “Here,” Lydia says, reaching for the SPF 55 and tossing it at him. “If you’re going to stay, at least make yourself useful.”

And she turns her back to him, shoving the straps of her swimsuit low on her shoulders. She’s not surprised to hear him fumble the plastic cap. It skitters across the pavement, Prada hopping out of his lap to chase it. “Just your shoulders?” Parrish asks, voice dangerously close to cracking.

“Make sure it’s even,” says Lydia as his calloused fingers massage her shoulders. “It’s not like looking into a crystal ball.”

There’s a cool squirt of sunscreen on her shoulder waiting to be rubbed in, like he can’t focus on both things at once. “What’s not?”

“The banshee thing.” Lydia waits until Parrish remembers the task at hand before continuing, “It’s more like I’m in a crowded room and someone brushes past me, but I can’t quite - ”

“ - hear what they whisper.”

Lydia frowns. “How did you know that?” she demands. “Have you been talking to Stiles?”

The elastic edge of her swimsuit snaps back against her skin, and she realizes a second too late his fingers must have brushed against her scars.

He looks horrified. “I don’t - I’m not sure - ”

“It’s fine,” Lydia interrupts, and she snatches the sunscreen back from him. “Anything else?”

Parrish clasps his hands together. “This guy that threatened Mrs. McCall - ”

“Severo Calavera.”

“ - is bad news. So why is everyone so upset I got McCall involved? Sure, he came after Stilinski’s job - ”

“You’re looking at it wrong,” Lydia interrupts. “This isn’t about Scott’s dad or Melissa’s ex-husband. It’s about trust. Scott and the sheriff trusted you to keep a secret, and you didn’t.”

“It was the right call,” Parrish insists. “Before anyone else gets - ”

“It wasn’t your call to make. What if not knowing gets Agent McCall hurt?” _Or worse._

Parrish doesn’t say anything as he rises to his feet. “Thanks for your help.”

Lydia waits for him to take a few steps before she calls, “You’re a good soldier, Deputy.”

He freezes, but he doesn’t turn around. “Why would you say that?”

“Because,” she says, swapping out her sunglasses for the ones he returned, “the rules are different in Beacon Hills.”

*           *           *

He buys two bouquets - Peruvian lilies for Victoria, white roses for Allison - and overhears the florist whisper knowingly to her assistant, “One for his wife, one for his mistress.”

“For my wife and daughter,” Argent says loudly as he swipes his credit card. The florist reddens. She gets a tight-lipped smile from him. “To decorate their graves.”

He rolls up to the cemetery at dusk. It’s after hours, though the gates remain open, empty save for a dark sedan parked near the dilapidated caretaker’s hut. His phone dings.

**1 MESSAGE**

**ISAAC LAHEY**

It’s a picture of a spaghetti bolognese MRE.

**ISAAC: Your rations suck**

Argent smirks. He’s trying to come up with a clever response when another message from Isaac pops up.

**ISAAC: You said it only was going to be a couple of days**

**ISAAC: It’s been a month**

**ARGENT: You can go into town to buy groceries. Do not attract attention. There is cash under the loose floorboard.**

**ISAAC: No there isn’t. Your sister cleared it out.**

“Dammit, Kate,” Argent swears under his breath. He tosses his phone into the cup holder, tucks the bouquets under his arm. Another ding. And another. And another.

**ISAAC: I’m sorry**

**ISAAC: That was uncalled for**

**ISAAC: It’s lonely out here**

**ARGENT: The cheese tortellini isn’t bad. Neither is the chili.**

He pockets his phone and slams the car door. Now the light is starting to fade as he follows the path back to his family’s plot. He marches past Kate’s headstone - in a moment of weakness, he’d considered buying her flowers too - and lays the lilies on Victoria’s grave, the roses on Allison’s. Of course, he manages to catch his finger on a thorn, and he sucks it into his mouth to stanch the bleeding.

“You don’t get many visitors here, do you?” Argent asks, crouching low to examine the simple headstone he and Allison had picked out for Victoria. No beloved wife, beloved mother. Just her name and dates of birth and death. “Your mother wanted to bury you next to your sister. But I - ” he swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand “ - didn’t want to give you back to those people.”

_Victoria C Argent_

_April 13, 1968_

_March 29, 2011_

“I’m sorry,” he says roughly. “I’m sorry I didn’t - I’m sorry I couldn’t - ”

His voice cracks. “I stuck to the plan,” he insists. “I let Allison lead. She wanted to change the code, and I let her. Now she’s dead, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I let you down. I’m sorry for what I have to - ”

Argent rubs his mouth. Nodding, he shuffles the few feet over to his daughter’s grave and pulls the small, crude dagger from his pocket and unwraps it carefully. “You should have seen Isaac,” he tells Allison fondly, using the hand-hewn blade to trace the letters on her tombstone, “he cut his fingers so many times learning to throw, to the point they wouldn’t heal instantaneously. But he was insistent. This would be his weapon.”

_Allison C Argent_

_Jan 31, 1994_

_Nov 13, 2011_

He buries the silver dagger to the hilt close to Allison’s headstone where the grass will grow over it, taking a quick photograph to share with Isaac when he retrieves the young werewolf from the safe house in Washington.

 _“Nous protégeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger eux-mêmes,”_ Argent tells his little girl, and he takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I haven’t forgotten. I have to fix this, but I didn’t - I won’t forget. I promise, everything I’m about to do is for you, Allison. For your friends. For Scott.”

And he walks back out of the cemetery.

**ARGENT: One week.**

**ISAAC: Let me see, where have I heard that before**

**ARGENT: I mean it, Isaac.**

**ARGENT: One week.**

The werewolf texts another photo of an MRE. This time, it’s the cheese tortellini.

**ISAAC: Blaming you if I run out of food**

Argent smirks, thumbs _go catch a rabbit_ , is about to hit send when he notices movement near the caretaker’s shack. He swaps his cell phone for a pair of binoculars, hunkering down low.

It’s Lydia.

He watches the caretaker wave. Argent rolls up his windows.

_What are you doing here, Lydia?_

*           *           *

“It was a dream,” Derek tells Stiles. “It was actually more like a nightmare.”

There’s a draft in the locker room, and Stiles draws his arms a little tighter across his chest. So that’s why Derek called him. “OK. What happened?”

“It started with these hunters that caught Peter and me after we left Cora. There’s a family of hunters led by a guy named Severo,” says Derek. “They broke into my loft. They demanded I tell them about La Loba - ”

“The she-wolf?” Stiles interrupts. “Cora?”

Derek shakes his head. “That’s who I thought they meant, too. But when I said I’d never tell them where she was, Severo was confused. He had no idea who I was talking about.”

Stiles murmurs, “She supposedly died in a fire six years ago, why would he?”

But the werewolf isn’t paying him any attention. “That’s when the loft began to fill with smoke. It took the Calaveras by surprise, too. And then she took them down one by one,” Derek says.

“Who was it?” Stiles wants to know.

“There’s a lot of myths about how people can be turned into a werewolf. Usually, a bite,” says Derek. “There’s one about rainwater - ”

“Drinking rainwater out of the puddle of a werewolf’s print,” Stiles finishes.

“There’s another one.” Stiles jerks his head, no, he doesn’t know any others. “Do you - do you know how Peter killed Kate?”

Of course Stiles knows. “He ripped her throat out.” His heart skips a beat. “You’re not saying it was Kate, are you?” When the werewolf doesn’t answer, Stiles slips onto the bench across from him. “Derek, if this is all just a dream, then why do you look so worried?”

“Because I don’t remember waking up,” he admits. “So tell me. How do you know? How do you know you’re still dreaming?”

“Fingers,” Stiles volunteers. “In dreams you have extra fingers.”

Derek grabs his hand. “It’s real,” the werewolf whispers. “You’re real.”

Stiles startles awake, and he counts. “One,” he says, starting with his index finger. “Two, three, four, five.”

And, just to be sure, he counts again.

Once he’s sure he’s not dreaming, Stiles peels the sheets back so he can tear off his shrinker, his skin a pallid grey beneath the too-tight elastic. He tries rubbing some feeling back into it and flexes experimentally, lifting his stump a few inches off the mattress.

He considers calling Derek, but he has no idea what he’d say to the werewolf - “Come quick, the hunters are real, so Kate must be, too!” - so he leaves his phone on the nightstand and reaches for his walker. Stiles is about to pull up on it when he hears a low, rumbling snore from upstairs. He lets go of the walker and hoists himself into his wheelchair instead. Better safe than wake his dad up.

In the bathroom, Stiles cups his hands under the tap and splashes cool water on his face, until he feels the neck of his t-shirt getting damp. He glances at the mirror. His hair’s getting longer. His eyes are bloodshot. Stiles blinks.

The eyes staring back at him in the mirror aren’t warm and brown, but cold, dead and devoid of expression.

Stiles panics and takes a swing at the nogitsune.

Except it’s a shit angle and mostly Stiles cracks his knuckles on the porcelain sink. He’s about to start swearing up a storm when he remembers his father, slumbering upstairs. He settles on a mumbled _son of a bitch_ as he sucks his split knuckle into his mouth.

It’s stupid. The dream’s stupid. Before the bus crash, he’d looked up _werejaguar_ in the bestiary and gotten laughed out of Deaton’s office when he plucked up the courage to ask the emissary about it. Hell, he’d actually driven to Derek’s one night, trip-falling out of the Jeep and skinning his knee so badly the werewolf came outside because he smelled blood. Derek had insisted on patching Stiles up, even when the teenager flat-out refused to say why he was there in the first place.

Stiles spits into the sink, rakes his tongue on the underside of his teeth, trying to get rid of the metallic taste in his mouth. He hits the light switch with his palm on the way out of the bathroom.

_“There’s a family of hunters,” Derek always says, “led by a guy named Severo.”_

Only Severo isn’t in charge. Araya is.

Stiles fumbles with the lamp, flicking the switch once, twice, three times before it illuminates. He yanks a battered notebook out from under his mattress. He’d pleaded with Kira for half a day before the kitsune gave in and fetched it for him from his old room. In it, Stiles keeps everything he’s managed to find on Kate Argent. A newspaper clipping flutters to the floor as he flips very fast to the first blank page.

Stiles can sketch four generations of the Calavera family tree from memory. That’s what’s in the book. He connects Araya with a vertical line to her mother, then, after a moment’s hesitation, adds a horizontal line next to it. He scribbles _deceased_ because he’s pretty sure he heard Argent tell Scott the other day Araya is a widow. Stiles pencils in Severo next, followed by an unnamed brother (Derek mentioned being captured by “the Calaveras brothers” in a conversation so loud Stiles hadn’t needed supernatural hearing to eavesdrop) and the sister he has no proof exists.

At least, not yet. Now Stiles is dragging out his laptop and asking the Google to find the missing Calavera daughter. He leans forward in his wheelchair, computer resting on the edge of his bed, wading through page after page of Spanish-language results.

Finally, he finds an obituary for a Carmen Calavera that looks promising, but it’s locked behind a paywall. Stiles reaches for his wallet, then remembers _oh yeah, he lost his in the bus crash._

Then he remembers something else. He grabs his phone.

**STILES: What was Allison’s middle name?**

**LYDIA: Carmen.**

**LYDIA: It’s almost midnight, Stiles. You should be asleep.**

*           *           *

“There’s a pretty girl asking for you at the front desk,” Deputy Arroyo informs Parrish, snapping her gum loudly to get his attention.

Parrish blinks. “A pretty girl?”

Arroyo blows a bright, pink bubble. “Red hair, pale skin, 5-foot-3.” As an afterthought, she adds, “Total babe.”

He gets out of his chair so fast he bangs his knee. His heart thumps erratically as he rounds the corner. He can hear Arroyo laughing. “Lydia,” he says, holding the door open. “What are - ”

But Lydia practically shoves him aside, yanking the door closed behind her. “It’s bulletproof?” she demands. Parrish nods. “Someone followed me.”

He ushers her back. “Sit,” he commands, pulling out his chair for her. She sits, skirt askew. Parrish leans against Deputy Haines’ empty desk. “Tell me exactly what happened. Jo, grab Lydia a cup of coffee, will you?”

Deputy Arroyo makes a face, but she gets up from her desk. “Cream and sugar?” she asks Lydia.

The banshee nods. “I was at the cemetery,” she tells Parrish once Arroyo is out of earshot.

“Lydia, it’s the middle of the night.”

She glares at him. “This was yesterday.”

Parrish can feel his cheeks burning, though Lydia hasn’t exactly explained why she’s here _now._ “Oh,” he manages. “Go on.”

Lydia scrapes her lip with her teeth. “There was a red SUV parked there with the window rolled down, but whoever was sitting inside rolled it up as I passed.”

“Make, model?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know, but I saw the same one about an hour ago.”

“California plates?” Lydia nods. “Where?”

Lydia doesn’t say. “It was following me. At first, I thought it was a weird coincidence - thanks.” She accepts the cup of coffee from Arroyo but doesn’t drink. “Then I almost missed my turn. That’s when I noticed the SUV stop, too. So I got on Circle Street to see if it would follow me.”

“And it did?” Arroyo wants to know. Lydia nods.

“Why didn’t you call?” Parrish demands. “Someone could have - ”

Lydia averts her eyes. “I left - I forgot my phone.”

Parrish would probably press for details if he weren’t trying to remember if he ever saw a list of vehicles registered to the Calaveras. “It’s not someone you know? No one owns a red SUV?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

It occurs to him suddenly. “What about Argent? Didn’t he used to own a red Tahoe?”

“I think he traded that in for some kind of Toyota,” Lydia replies.

Arroyo asks, “Who’s Argent?”

Parrish turns to the other deputy. “I got this,” he tells her.

“You’ve got this?” Arroyo sounds skeptical. “Because it sounds to me - ”

 _“I said_ , I got this,” Parrish snaps. He waits until Arroyo’s shooting him dirty looks from her desk before asking Lydia, “What happened when you pulled into the station?”

“The SUV pulled in, too. The driver flashed the brights so I couldn’t see into the windshield, then took off.”

“North or south?”

Lydia thinks about it for a second. “South,” she says finally, and she takes a sip of coffee.

“We’re going to figure this out,” Parrish promises, then he walks over to Arroyo’s desk. “She’s one of Stiles’ friends.”

“You’re an asshole,” Arroyo spits.

Parrish is too tired to play interdepartmental politics. “Can you put out a BOLO?” he asks. “Red SUV, possibly a Chevy Tahoe.” She doesn’t move. “Please?”

She’s still glaring daggers as she taps her radio.

Lydia is chewing on her thumbnail but stops as soon as she notices he’s walking back toward her. “What time will the sheriff be in?” she wants to know.

Parrish glances at his watch, an old gold one Jim’s buddies had given him to celebrate his 25th anniversary with the Iowa Highway Patrol. “Soon,” he says. “He’s been getting here early so he can take Stiles to PT.”

“I should - ”

Parrish pushes down on her shoulder. “You’re not going anywhere without an escort,” he tells her.

Lydia sets her lips in a thin line as the BOLO goes out on the scanner.

“Parrish, a word?”

“Don’t go anywhere,” he tells Lydia before following Arroyo to an out-of-the-way corner of the station. “Look, I know it’s not procedure - ”

“Who’s the girl, Parrish?”

Parrish stops. “I told you, that’s Lydia Martin. She’s one of Stiles’ friends.”

“Who is she to _you.”_

His mouth is dry. “She’s not anything to me.”

Arroyo snorts. “Right. I know she was here a couple of days ago, too. She was in the parking lot when we got back from the Express Mart. That’s why I asked the sheriff to change the door code.”

“That was you?” It would explain why Lydia hadn’t come right in this time.

“Look, I know you’re not from around here, but I used to drive for North Cali Emergency. What I saw the night that kid shot up the station? All those dead deputies? It’s the kind of thing that sticks with you.”

“Lydia’s harmless,” Parrish insists.

“Lydia just walked out of the station.”

Parrish spins around. Sure enough, the banshee is gone.

*           *           *

“You’re late,” Scott tells Argent grumpily, jumping down from the tree where he’s been sitting for the past hour and landing cleanly on the forest floor.

“Something came up.”

The way the hunter says it raises every hair on the back of Scott’s neck. “Did the Calaveras - ”

 _“No,”_ Argent interrupts. He clears his throat. “Do you know why Lydia was at the cemetery this afternoon? I saw her near the caretaker’s hut.”

Scott shakes his head. Curious, he asks, “Why were you at - ” he stops abruptly. He swallows hard. “Sorry. Stupid question.”

“It’s fine.” Argent’s tone is more weary than exasperated. He disappears behind the tree line. “I’d watch my step if I were you,” he calls over his shoulder.

Scott’s not sure if the hunter intends to follow his own advice. Argent’s already deep within the dense canopy, visible only to Scott’s wolf eyes. “What are we looking - ”

The hunter’s outstretched arm collides with Scott’s chest. “I said,” he grits, _“watch your step.”_

Argent grabs a fallen tree branch and jabs it straight down into the moldy leaves. At once, a pair of steel jaws clamp tight, snapping the branch. Scott jumps back. Argent reels the trap up by the chain. “This,” he says, waving it in Scott’s face, “is Araya’s game.”

“How do I stop her?” Scott wants to know.

“Deaton didn’t have any ideas?”

Scott shakes his head. He’d swung by the veterinary clinic after dinner with Kira and Stiles, but Deaton hadn’t wanted to talk about the Calaveras any more than he had all month. Instead, he’d left Scott to make a house call. One of their longtime patients, Hercules, had picked a fight at the dog park, his third in as many weeks since the death of his canine companion. “Grief makes us do funny things, Scott,” Deaton had called on his way out the door. Scott hadn’t been sure if the doctor was speaking as a veterinarian or his emissary.

“Too bad,” says Argent, using a screwdriver to permanently disable the locking mechanism on the trap before casting it aside.

Scott’s a little more careful after that, practically tiptoeing across the forest floor. They’ve trekked at least a mile before he’s the one throwing out an arm to stop Argent. “Hear that?”

The hunter’s lips curl into an amused smirk. “No, but I’m not a werewolf.”

Again, Scott hears a low, pitiful howl. But it’s not a wolf. It’s -

 _“Malia,”_ Scott breathes, and he tears off on all fours, ignoring Argent’s shout of protest. That’s when he sees the trapped coyote, desperately biting its own paw in a bid to get free. The alpha flashes his eyes. The coyote continues to struggle. “Shift back,” Scott begs. “Shift - ”

There’s the crack of a bullet, and the coyote goes limp, blood seeping out of its side. “Scott - ”

But he’s so furious with the hunter he wolfs out and backs Argent against a tree. “You didn’t have to kill her!” Scott shouts, angry tears slipping out of his eyes. “You didn’t - ”

Argent manages to grab both his wrists. “Listen to me, Scott. That’s not a girl. That’s a coyote. See for yourself. That was a wolfsbane round.”

Still sniffling, Scott glances over the hunter’s shoulder to the dead coyote. Now that he’s not so panicked, he can tell the animal smells different, too. He hastily wipes the tears from his eyes. “I thought - ”

“I know you did,” says Argent, already in search of the next trap.

But Scott has to check, one more time, that the dead coyote isn’t Malia. He drops to his knees, reaches out to stroke its fur and manages to trigger another trap. The alpha cries out as Argent doubles back. Blood pours from his mangled hand.

 _“Don’t move,”_ Argent barks. He mutters something about the trap being a different design than he’s used to. Scott’s bones try to shift back into place but can’t because there’s metal disrupting them. Finally, the hunter manages to free him, immediately whipping out a rag to wrap around Scott’s bleeding hand. “It’s a bad injury,” he warns, “even for an alpha.”

Scott swallows a hot splash of vomit that rises in his throat. “Yeah,” he says shakily, feeling his tendons snap back into place. “Why is she doing this? Why does she hate us so much?”

There’s a pause. “I’ve known Araya a long time,” Argent admits. “She wasn’t always like this.”

“What happened? The job, or - ”

“Hunting isn’t a job, Scott,” Argent interrupts, the waning moon casting shadows on his face. “It’s an obligation. It’s a calling. But yes, the Calaveras have had their share of tragedies. Most leaders know how to accept them and move on.”

Ignoring his throbbing hand, Scott scrambles to catch up with the hunter. “And what, she stopped accepting them?”

“Something like that.”

“So what, she threw out the code? Because the berserker - ”

“That violated the code, yes. So do these traps. But if I know Araya - ” the alpha reads the look on Argent’s face as _and I do know Araya_ “ - she picked them to remind you of Stiles.”

Startled, Scott forgets about the pain and asks, “Does she know about the nogitsune?”

“Not that it was Stiles.”

Realization dawns on Scott. “She blames me, doesn’t she? For what happened to Allison.” When Argent doesn’t reply, Scott suggests, “Maybe I could tell her - ”

“She’s not going to believe you. Perhaps - ”

“No!” Scott interjects. This is the third time the hunter’s hinted at taking Lydia to talk to Araya. But there’s something about the plan that the alpha doesn’t trust. He remembers the coyote and says, “No one else gets hurt.”

Argent shrugs. “You might be a true alpha, Scott, but even you can’t guarantee that.” And he trudges deeper still into the forest, poking the ground with a stick before every step. Scott knows the hunter is thinking about Allison.

*           *           *

Kira walks through the high school, empty hallways littered with old textbooks and bits of trash. Overhead, the lights flicker. “Stop that,” she whispers, stopping to inspect a badly-damaged locker. The door swings precariously from the hinges, deep claw marks etched into the metal. She runs her fingers against the rough surface. A bulb bursts. She cringes. “No,” she reminds herself.

She’s not sure what she’s doing at school in the middle of the summer. Maybe she’s supposed to take the SAT.

Kira’s relieved when she turns the corner and sees her boyfriend in the distance. “Scott!” she calls.

Except, he’s shifted.

“Scott,” she says, approaching the werewolf cautiously, “shift back. We’re at school, people will see.”

“Can’t seem to,” Scott mutters, inspecting his claws. He holds out a furry hand to her. “Maybe you can help?”

She nods, no longer scared of him, and takes a step forward. “Close your eyes,” she says, and she kisses him, current flowing between them.

Scott yanks back, howling like a wounded animal. “Why did you do that?” he demands, his eyes glowing red.

Kira’s horrified to see his singed fur. “I was trying to help,” she insists, and she startles awake.

There’s another tap on her bedroom window. Heart pounding, Kira throws back her covers. Her boyfriend is crouched on the roof, a crooked half-smile on his face. “What are you doing here?” she hisses, opening the window so he can climb in.

He tucks a strand of long, black hair behind her ear. “I was out with Argent,” he tells her, “but I just really wanted to see you.”

Kira softens. “Were you out there long?” she wants to know.

Scott kisses a path along her jaw. “Why? Worried you snore?” He grins at her look of horror. “I figured you were just having a really intense dream.”

“You could say that,” says Kira, shivering in her thin camisole. She blushes when she realizes Scott’s staring at her pert nipples.

He settles his hands on her hips. “So what was it about?” he asks, voice husky.

Kira frowns as gauze brushes her midriff. “I was dreaming about the SAT,” she lies, grabbing his hand. It’s bandaged, stained red. Her heart starts pounding again. “Scott - ”

“Relax,” he tells her, taking a step back and unwrapping his hand. “It’s healed now.”

Scott’s tanned skin is unbroken. Still, Kira doesn’t need a supernatural sense of smell to notice the bandages he discards are caked with fresh blood. She crosses her arms. “What happened?”

Scott scratches the back of his head. “I should have waited for Argent,” he mutters. “There was a trap. The Calaveras set it.”

“What kind of trap?”

He avoids her eye as he says, “A bear trap.”

Kira knows what that means. “A werewolf trap,” she corrects, dropping onto the edge of her bed.

The mattress dips as Scott takes a seat next to her. “We found one with a coyote in it.”

Horrified, Kira blurts, “It wasn’t - ”

“No,” Scott says firmly, “it wasn’t Malia.”

“Poor thing,” says Kira, rubbing his shoulder as dawn breaks over the tidy subdivision.

Scott starts to stand. “I should go,” he says. “Before your parents - ”

“Stay.”

Scott blinks. “What if we get caught?”

“Well,” says Kira, but she’s not very brave so she settles on, “let’s not get caught.”

*           *           *

Stiles flips from his back to his side, trying to get comfortable on the lumpy couch in the sheriff’s office. He wishes Derek would hurry up and get to the station. His back is killing him after PT, and he has serious plans to spend the rest of the day in a Vicodin haze.

There’s a knock on the door, a second before Scott’s dad barges in.

“He had to run out on a call,” Stiles says lazily, not bothering to lift his head off the couch.

“What, cat get stuck in a tree?” asks Rafe, and he pulls the door shut behind him. He circles the sheriff’s desk, then leans against the edge. “How are you doing, Stiles?”

Now Stiles has to struggle to sit up. “Fine,” he lies, careful not to wince.

“How’s PT? Have they had any luck building you a socket?”

“Not in the last three days, no,” says Stiles dryly. “And can we not? You don’t care about how I’m doing. You never have.”

“That’s not - ” Rafe crosses his arms. “I have a few questions for you, Stiles.”

 _Better_. He shrugs. “OK.”

“The man who threatened Mrs. McCall, Severo Calavera. You know him?”

“Nope,” says Stiles because that’s technically true. Rafe should have asked if he’d ever heard of Severo Calavera. That’s how the sheriff would have asked. “And don’t you mean _Ms._ McCall?”

Rafe makes a face. “So you’d never heard of Severo Calavera before he threatened Melissa?”

 _Busted_. “I might have heard the name before, sure,” says Stiles, spreading his palms flat on the couch cushions so he won’t be tempted to bite his nails. “Not exactly a crime, Rafe.”

“No, but this is,” says Rafe, and he surprises Stiles by plucking a report off the sheriff’s desk and handing it to the teen.

In his haste to snatch the case file, Stiles almost falls off the couch. He glares at the smirking FBI agent. _“Jerk,”_ he mutters, flipping the case file open. His stomach churns. There’s a gruesome crime scene photo on top, a dead man lying in a pool of blood. He hastily closes it, demanding, “What the hell is this?”

“Five years ago, federal murder case. An FBI agent was gunned down in West Hollywood, no leads. It took us 18 months to scrounge up a single witness, a drug kingpin who agreed to testify in exchange for immunity. Except he never took the stand. He got shot while eating breakfast the morning he was supposed to testify.”

Stiles opens the file again, more cautiously this time. “I remember this case,” he tells Rafe. “Didn’t you catch the guy? That’s when you got the promotion, split town.”

Rafe’s eyes narrow. “I didn’t split - ” he clears his throat. “Keep reading.”

Stiles finds what he’s looking for on the very last page. “Severo Calavera sold the gun,” he says. “Seriously, what have you been doing for the last month? Bring him in on federal firearms charges already.”

Rafe plucks the file out of Stiles’ hands so fast the teen’s going to have papercuts. “Does it ever occur to you these things take time?”

Stiles sucks one bleeding finger into his mouth. “Fine,” he says. “Trump up the charges, wait until even you can make the case. Hope he doesn’t shoot your ex-wife in the meantime.”

Before Rafe can respond, the door swings open again. “Stiles, Derek’s - Agent McCall.” Parrish’s eyes are bloodshot, and Stiles has to wonder how long it’s been since the deputy slept.

“Get out, Parrish,” snarls Rafe. Startled, the deputy does as he’s told. “You listen to me,” he tells Stiles, jabbing a finger at the teen’s chest. “You might still be in high school, but you’re legally an adult. The system doesn’t care how many legs you have. If I find out you or any of your friends are withholding information on a federal case - ”

“What, you’ll do your job?”

The barb has the intended effect. Rafe storms out of the room, slamming the door so hard the flag over John’s desk comes tumbling down. Stiles presses his still-bleeding finger to his thumb, tries to look nonchalant when Derek and Parrish burst in a minute later.

“You’re an idiot,” Derek tells Stiles as Parrish tucks the flag case back on the ledge. Stiles thinks the glass might have cracked, but he holds his tongue. “Come on.”

Stiles ends up needing Derek’s help to drag his aching body off the couch. But he bristles when the werewolf grabs onto his walker. “Get off,” he says sourly, trudging slowly out the door. He doesn’t say anything to Parrish because he’s still holding a tiny grudge (that’s a lie, it’s a big one) against the deputy for calling Scott’s dad in the first place.

Once they’re in the car, Derek says, “He has no idea what the hell he’s meddling in.”

“No shit,” says Stiles, tugging frustratedly on his seatbelt when it won’t release. “He’s going to get us all killed.”

Derek doesn’t disagree, but he does reach over and grab Stiles’ hand. “Seriously? It’s like you’ve never used a seatbelt before.” The buckle snaps back.

“The Jeep had lap belts,” Stiles retorts, finally able to click the buckle into place. The words have their intended effect because Derek looks positively _wounded_ when he recoils. Stiles decides to test his luck. “I need to ask you a question.”

Derek’s head is turned because he’s backing out. “OK.”

Stiles is going to hell for this. “It’s about Kate Argent.”

Derek’s entire body goes rigid. “No.”

“C’mon, man, it’s really - ”

“I said _no,_ Stiles!”

But Stiles isn’t ready to give up just yet. “Fine,” he says. “Then I’ll ask Peter.”

“You’re not asking Peter,” Derek growls, so fiercely Stiles glances over to make sure he hasn’t wolfed out. “You’re not going anywhere near Peter. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal,” Stiles mutters, slinking lower into his seat. “Just - don’t you think it’s weird Kate had to assemble a crack team of arsonists to burn down your house?”

Derek jams on the brakes at a yellow light. “No,” he bites. He glares at Stiles.

“Why not call her dad and brother?”

“Maybe you haven’t noticed,” Derek says coolly, “but I don’t like to talk about the day my entire family died.”

Yep, Stiles is _definitely_ going to hell. “OK, forget Kate,” he says quickly. “One more question, not about her. Your mom was an alpha, and so was your sister.”

The light turns green. “That’s not a question.”

“Is that common?” Stiles wants to know. “Are wolf packs usually matrilineal?”

“Mine was.”

“I’m not - you don’t have to tell me anything about your family, dude,” says Stiles, hoping Derek will relax his taut shoulders. The werewolf doesn’t. “I just need to know if there are other packs where the daughters become leaders.”

Finally Derek says, “There could be.”

“But there aren’t, to your knowledge?” Stiles presses.

“I don’t presume to know everything about other werewolf packs, Stiles.”

“Look, I’m asking because I’m wondering if it’s a thing, like a feminist thing, like a supernatural feminist thing where wolf packs and hunting dynasties pass down to daughters - ”

“Stiles, your dad forbid you from looking into the Calaveras.”

Stiles bristles. “My dad doesn’t get a say,” he says hotly. “I’m 18. He can’t _forbid_ me from - ”

“While you’re living under his roof, he can,” Derek retorts. “Stiles, no. I’m not discussing it with you. Not - ”

“Allison’s dad told her the women were the leaders,” Stiles blurts. “If that’s the case, Kate should have had her dad and brother do her - ”

“Does it matter?” Derek interrupts. “Does it matter who lit the match? Either way, my family dies.”

Stiles feels the need to apologize. “I’m sorry,” he tells Derek, “that was out of line.” But he keeps his theory to himself.

*           *           *

John wipes sweat from his brow as he peers into the stalled car’s smoking engine. His uniform shirt is plastered to his back. “It was running fine earlier?” he asks the passing motorist who had the misfortune of breaking down out of range of the nearest cell tower.

“It was when I left the airport,” the woman insists in a drawl that tells John she’s just visiting. “I’m supposed to be spending a week with my sister on Bucks Lake. Then my stupid GPS lost signal and I must have taken a wrong turn - oh, _goodness_.”

The sheriff splutters through the plume of grey smoke. Privately, he’s wondering why she needs four matching, monogrammed suitcases for a trip to Bucks Lake. “You must've missed the 162 turnoff,” he tells her, checking the carburetor. “Your GPS was probably trying to route you in the back way.”

Now the woman is holding up her iPhone like the extra two feet will improve reception. John’s prodding the exhaust when she finally gives up. “You sure look like you know your way around an engine, Sheriff,” she tells him in a falsely-cheery voice that suggests she believes the exact opposite to be true.

“I’ve managed to keep my son’s 30-year-old Jeep running,” John replies evenly. “I’m just used to engines held together with a little more duct tape and grease, I guess.” There’s a pang as he bends back down to inspect a flat, shiny metal disk he just noticed. He still isn’t sure what to do with the beat-up rust bucket in his driveway.

“How old’s your son?”

“Uh, 17,” says John absently, running his fingers over the disk. He’s pretty sure it doesn’t belong there. To his surprise, it peels back from the Malibu’s engine like a magnet. “Crap, Stiles is 18. I keep forgetting he had his birthday.” _Probably because he spent the day in surgery_.

The woman doesn’t even notice him inspecting the part that shouldn’t be there because she’s too busy pulling up pictures of her daughters on her phone. “Jenna is 20 and goes to Auburn,” she tells the sheriff. “Jessica’s still in high school, but she’s thinking UGA. And Stiles! Isn’t that an unusual name?”

John surreptitiously drops the disk into his breast pocket while tapping his nameplate. “Short for Stilinski,” he tells her. “Let’s just say his first name is _really_ Polish. Why don’t you try starting the car?”

Her look says _but you haven’t_ done _anything_ , though she gets behind the wheel. Sure enough, it starts with a rumble. John closes the hood. “I can’t thank you enough,” the woman gushes as he gives her directions to the highway.

“I’d call the rental car company once you get to the lake,” he tells her. “Enjoy your vacation.”

He waits until she’s rounded the corner to pull the disk back out. He’s pretty sure it’s what made the late-model car stall. “Three guesses who might want to strand motorists near the preserve,” he mutters, “and your first two don’t count.”

John’s not expecting the flurry of radio traffic when he gets back into his cruiser. It dawns on him he’s broken his No. 1 rule for deputies - never take off your radio because you never know when you’ll need to call for backup. “Crap,” he mutters as dispatch squawks a 10-25 call for _him_. The disk is tossed into the cup holder and forgotten. “This is Sheriff Stilinski. I’ve been on a motorist assist. What’s happening?”

The radio crackles. “All available units, proceed to the preserve. I repeat, all available units are needed for a search and rescue at the preserve. Fourteen-year-old male with critical injuries.”

“10-4,” he says, heart pounding. Probably another ATV rollover, another teen who thinks he’s invincible. “Proceeding with lights and sirens.”

He recognizes Parrish’s voice in the cacophony. “Sheriff Stilinski, 10-40?”

“Copy that, Deputy Parrish,” he says, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

His cell rings a minute later. “What the hell is going on?” John demands.

“We’ve got Forestry and Conservation prepared to assist, sir,” says Parrish, “and I called Scott, just in - ”

“Hold on, hold on,” says John, almost dropping the phone because he takes a curve too fast and has to grab the wheel with both hands. “Back up, Parrish. Start at the beginning. Why are you calling the kids - ”

“There’s a 14-year-old kid somewhere on the preserve with his leg stuck in a bear trap,” says Parrish. “His friend hiked out for help when he couldn’t get a cell signal.”

“You’re telling me we’ve got a 14-year-old kid bleeding out in the woods and we don’t know his location?”

“That’s why I called Scott, sir.”

“ _Christ_ ,” says John, hanging up the call. He’s not the first officer on scene - plus CAL FIRE is already there, unloading four-wheelers from a tractor-trailer - but he’s looking for the alpha. He sees Scott hovering near his mom’s car, just outside the perimeter. The sheriff waves him over.

“You can’t - ” one well-meaning ranger begins.

“It’s OK, Marsha,” John calls. “He works with Dr. Deaton.”

The veterinarian is well-respected by the conservationists who work at the preserve, so she lets Scott pass. “Parrish said there’s a kid with his leg stuck in a bear trap,” Scott mumbles, hands in his pockets. “I called Malia and Derek, too.”

“That’s what I hear,” says John, wondering why Stiles’ best friend won’t meet his eye as he tries to figure out who he needs to see about commandeering a four-wheeler. “I’m trying - ”

“The Calaveras set the traps, sir,” Scott blurts. “Argent thinks they were trying to catch - to catch _us.”_

 _Werewolves_. John rubs his mouth. “Marsha!” he hollers. “I’m taking one of these.” To Scott, he says, “Get on.”

“I’ll be faster on - ”

“Once we’re past the treeline,” John says, and he grabs a flare gun, too. Scott jumps off as soon as they’re out of sight. “If you find him first, tie a tourniquet,” he says, handing off the first aid kit. “At this point, it’s probably about saving his life, not his leg. And Scott?”

“Yes, Sheriff?”

“Try not to think about Stiles,” he says, as much for himself as for his son’s best friend.

Scott swallows hard, then takes off on all fours. John sticks close to the trail, trying to remember everything he’d picked up on the scanner. The kid’s in an orange Giants shirt; he shouldn’t be hard to spot. The friend thought they were about two miles in, judging by the time it took him to hike out.

John comes to a fork in the path. A faded sign points right: “This way to Beacon Hills Lake.” To the left, tight clusters of trees block the light. The sheriff licks his lips. _Two teenage boys, fooling around in the woods. Which way would Stiles have dragged Scott?_ Left, definitely left.

He’s not expecting to find the kid himself. That’s why he sent the first aid kit with Scott and his superior nose. But ten minutes in, John notices a stark orange square in the distance. “Beacon Hills Sheriff!” he shouts. No answer. He hops off the four-wheeler. “Can anyone - ”

The sheriff sucks in his breath. Sure enough, there’s a kid in a baseball jersey on the ground, bloody ankle tangled in the sinister trap jaws. John drops to his knees and clumsily yanks off his belt. He tries to radio - can’t get a signal - then remembers he has the flare gun. But first, he’s got to stabilize the kid. Using a stick for torsion, he ties his belt tightly around the teen’s thigh. His eyelids flutter. “Hey,” says John, trying to sound a lot calmer than he feels. “I’m the sheriff. What’s your name, son?”

“B-Brendan,” he stammers. His skin is cool to the touch.

“Brendan, I’m going to be _right_ back, but I need to signal for help, OK?” John says. “I need you to say OK, Brendan.”

“’Kay,” Brendan agrees. John high-tails it back to the ATV, fires the flare gun twice, carries it back with him. “You’re - the sheriff?”

“Sheriff Stilinski,” John says, hoping against hope the rustle of leaves he hears in the distance means help is on the way. He presses two fingers to Brendan’s wrist and counts. _Dammit_. The kid’s going into shock. “Hey, Brendan, I know you’re hurting, kiddo, but I need you to talk to me. You’re a Giants fan?”

“Y-yes,” Brendan stammers.

“What do you think of Bumgarner, huh?” John asked, relieved to see Scott thundering toward them.

“We were at the game,” Brendan says, eyes fluttering closed, “my dad and I, when he threw the shutout in June.”

“That must have been pretty exciting,” says John. “Hey, Brendan, this is Scott. He’s going to help me get you out, OK?”

Brendan nods. Then he asks, “Am I going to die?”

“C'mon, don't think like that,” John says at once. “You’ve got October baseball to look forward to.”

“Yeah,” Brendan agrees as Scott gets both hands on the heavy chain tethering the bear trap to the ground. He yanks it apart with a roar. “Am I going to lose my leg?”

John's mouth is dry. He's no doctor, but the kid's foot looks bad. Really bad. He licks his lips, trying to decide what to say. He doesn't have to. Scott pipes, "Hey, Brendan, did you know the sheriff’s son lost his leg?”

Brendan’s eyes spring open. “R-really?” he coughs.

“Really,” John confirms, heart hammering wildly. He’s not sure where Scott’s going with this.

“Is he - is he the same?” Brendan wants to know. “Can he - ”

“Yes,” Scott lies, with conviction. “He’s still my best friend. He’s still the same kid I used to get in trouble with on the playground in elementary school.” The alpha has Brendan’s hand now, pain splintering through his veins. “Should we move him?” he asks the sheriff.

“I don’t think we have a choice,” John says grimly, though he’s not thinking about Brendan. He’s staring at the kid’s mangled foot and thinking about his own son’s meltdown that morning at PT. “On three. One, two - ”

*           *           *

Scott hangs back as the paramedics load Brendan into an ambulance, the scent of fresh blood hanging heavily in the air. He’s still up on adrenaline when a hand closes around his shoulder. Scott about jumps out of his skin.

“Relax,” Argent tells him. He nods as the small crowd parts to let the ambulance leave. “That’s him? The kid?”

Scott nods. “They’re not sure they’ll be able to save his foot,” he says quietly, thinking of Stiles. He clears his throat. “I should have kept looking,” he declares. “I shouldn’t have - ”

“Scott.”

The alpha’s cheeks burn. “I know,” he says. “I know, it’s not - ”

“It’s time to end this,” Argent interrupts. “It’s gone far enough.”

And he takes off toward his car, leaving Scott to wonder what the hunter means. He doesn’t get to ponder it for long. Derek pulls up beside him.

“What took you so long?” Scott wants to know as soon as the other werewolf opens the door. “I called you an hour - ”

“Scott,” says Derek warningly, eyes flickering right to where Stiles is asleep in the passenger seat.

“You brought him?” Scott demands.

Derek closes the door gently so as not to wake Stiles. “I couldn’t leave him alone,” he says. “I take it you found the kid?”

Scott’s nostrils flare. “We could have used your help.”

Derek crosses his arms, mouth set in a thin line. “And I got here as fast as I could. It takes time to get Stiles - ”

“If you can’t handle it, I’ll take over,” Scott snaps. He can see the werecoyote out of the corner of his eye, coming out of the woods. “Take Malia, will you?”

Derek doesn’t say anything, just stalks off. Scott walks around to the passenger side and gives Stiles’ arm a shake. “Hey,” he says, trying not to let impatience creep into his voice as Stiles blinks back sleep. “I’m going to take you home, OK?” Scott reaches across Stiles to unbuckle the seat belt. Stiles tries to push the alpha’s hand back.

“Seriously, Scott, I can - ”

But Scott is too fast. “Where’s your walker?”

“Backseat,” Stiles mumbles, tugging at his gym shorts. Scott hooks Stiles under the armpits and hauls him out of Derek’s car. He realizes his mistake right as Derek seizes his arm.

“You’re not making him walk that far,” Derek growls. “Go pull around.”

Scott shakes the other werewolf off, glaring at him. He glances back at Stiles. He’s gripping his walker, white-knuckled, as Malia kicks a tennis shoe in the dirt. “Fine,” he spits, taking off toward his mom’s car, as the crowd of onlookers begins to disperse. Of course, Derek’s right - there’s loose dirt and rock everywhere, plenty to trip Stiles up.

By the time he gets back, Derek and Malia have gone, and the sheriff has an arm slung around Stiles’ shoulders. He’s had a chance to wash Brendan’s blood off his hands, but there’s still a deep crimson streak on his uniform. Scott swallows hard as he rolls the window down.

“Your mom’s off today?” John wants to know. Scott nods. “Why don’t you take him over to your house, keep an eye on her, too?”

“OK,” Scott agrees. The sheriff, too, ignores Stiles’ feeble protest that he can do this and belts his son in. “Let me know if you hear anything about Brendan, OK?”

“Will do,” the sheriff says, wiping sweat from his brow. He drums two fingers on the open window. “Thank your mom for me.”

“I will,” Scott promises. He glances over at Stiles, but his best friend stares fixedly out the window, determined not to meet Scott’s eye.

*           *           *

“ _Pick up_ ,” Lydia hisses as Scott’s phone rings and rings. “Pick up, pick up, pick - ”

“You’ve reached the voicemail box for - ”

She’s already left Scott two detailed, increasingly desperate messages about her broken-down car, so this time the alpha gets, “You’re dead to me, Scott. You hear that? Dead to me.” There’s a pause. “Please come get me.”

Never mind why Lydia is out on the side of Route 191, smoke billowing from under the hood of her Prius. One minute she’d been sitting at her computer, Prada asleep in her lap, writing a college essay. She’s supposed to be working on control, yet she has no idea how she ended up on the wrong side of the preserve.

Lydia wills her phone to ring. It doesn’t.

She could call Derek, but Lydia has a photographic memory. She can see plainly the calendar on the Stilinskis’ fridge, the werewolf’s name in block letters next to a doodle someone (Stiles, Stiles definitely is the one who added it) drew of a wolf. So Derek is otherwise occupied. That’s fine. They don’t get along anyway.

Finally Lydia gets tired of waiting for someone to come to her aid and gets out of the car. She crouches along the shoulder, searching for the hood release. “Ha!” she says, triumphant, when she pulls the button and hears a _pop_ from the front of the car.

Except she’s pretty much out after that. Lydia pumps her own gas, managed to add windshield wiper fluid once with minimal help from Stiles, but otherwise she leaves vehicle maintenance to her dad’s mechanic. Her nose wrinkles at the smell of motor oil. She takes a step back, almost loses a heel in the gravel.

“Focus, Lydia,” she tells herself. But it really is hopeless. She doesn’t know anything about cars, her mom forgot to pay AAA, Scott’s busy and not one car has passed in the half-hour since she snapped out of her trance to find her engine spluttering.

That’s when she spies the red SUV in the other lane, speeding away from the preserve. Lydia’s heart begins to pound as the other car slows, makes a U-turn and comes to a stop behind her.

But it’s only Argent. “What seems to be the problem, Lydia?” he calls, flinging the driver’s door open.

Lydia shrugs, heart still fluttering. _Chill, Lydia. He was probably following you last night to make sure the Calaveras weren’t._ “Hi, Mr. Argent,” she says.

She steps aside so he can take a look under the hood. “I haven’t seen you much since I got back into town,” Argent calls over his shoulder.

They’d run into each other, once, at Stiles’. She’d been dropping off math notes. He’d needed to consult with Scott. Neither of them had stayed long. “No,” Lydia agrees, and because she can’t stand the silence, she adds, “I’ve been busy, summer reading, college applications, you know.”

“Oh?” says Argent, giving something a prod. A second later, he’s pocketing a small, metal disk. “Where are you thinking?”

Lydia pretends not to see. “MIT,” she recites. “Princeton, UC-Berkeley, Caltech, UChicago, NYU - ”

“Allison talked about going to school in New York,” says Argent, a wistful note creeping into his voice. Lydia doesn’t say anything. Of course, she already knows this. She and Allison spent last summer Skyping about how they’d get an apartment together, study in coffee shops, pop into museums and art galleries. No, Lydia doesn’t think she’ll apply to NYU after all. Argent clears his throat. “I think it’s your battery.”

He’s lying. It’s not her battery. Lydia just got a new battery two weeks ago after all the excessive heat knocked hers out. “Is it?” she asks.

Argent closes the hood. “Come on,” he says, beckoning her toward his car. “I’ll give you a ride home.”

Allison had given Lydia a half-dozen self defense lessons on the wrestling mats in the practice gym. Too bad Lydia can’t seem to remember any of it. She keeps her feet firmly planted on the ground. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you,” she says. “I’ll call a tow truck.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s no trouble at all.”

“But Scott’s already on his way,” she says, and she hates that she can hear the desperation in her own voice.

Now Argent circles her. “Did I do something to make you uncomfortable, Lydia?”

 _You spent yesterday tailing me_. “No.”

“Because you can trust me, Lydia. Don’t you trust Allison’s dad?”

 _No_. “Yes,” Lydia lies.

“Good,” says Argent, and he pulls his gun on her. “Now get in my car.”

*           *           *

“Dude,” says Stiles, unlocking Scott’s phone with a swipe, “you have, like, a dozen missed calls from Lydia.”

He’s not expecting the alpha to glare at him. “I was a little busy helping your dad save that kid’s life,” Scott says coolly. “Give me - ”

Stiles jerks the phone away. “No,” he fires back. “Pay attention to the road.” He presses play on the first message. The banshee’s tinny voice fills the car.

_“Scott, it’s Lydia. I think my car must have overheated again. I’m out on 191, about a mile south of the turnoff for the lake. I’m going to call Triple A, but I thought you might be at Deaton’s and able to come get me. Talk to you soon.”_

_“It’s me again. So, uh, funny story. My mom apparently forgot to pay Triple A. So I could really use a lift. I’m on southbound 191, just past the sign for Beacon Hills Lake. Let me know you got this. OK, thanks.”_

Scott’s brow furrows. “What’s Lydia doing out by the preserve?” he asks, but he slows to make a U-turn just the same.

“Seriously?” Stiles asks. Scott shakes his head. “Lydia’s a banshee. She probably sensed that kid, Brandon - ”

“Brendan,” Scott corrects.

“ - Brendan, _whatever_ , was hurt and went looking for him,” says Stiles, drumming his fingers on the passenger door. “Hey, you want to turn - ”

“I know how to get to the 191!” Scott snaps, skidding around the curve so fast it leaves Stiles’ heart in his throat. “Sorry,” the alpha mumbles.

Stiles gives Scott the side-eye as he plays Lydia’s last message. _“You’re dead to me, Scott. You hear that? Dead to me.”_ There’s a long pause, then, _“Please come get me.”_

Stiles whistles. “She doesn’t sound happy.”

Scott sounds irritated. “Like I said,” he says through gritted teeth, “I was trying to make sure that kid didn’t - ”

“Are you OK?” Stiles interrupts.

He definitely doesn’t deserve that glare, either. “’Course I’m OK,” says Scott in a tone that says _don’t be ridiculous_. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know,” says Stiles, and he begins to count off on his fingers, “you snapped at Derek for no good reason, you snapped at _me_ for no good reason, you’re acting like Lydia meant for her car to break down and - _Jesus Christ Scott look out!”_

Scott slams on the brakes just in time to avoid orphaning Bambi, about knocking the wind out of Stiles in the process. “Are you OK?” he demands, pulling his arm back.

It’s Stiles’ turn to say, “Why wouldn’t I be?” But he knows his heart is pounding as they watch the deer saunter back into the woods.

“I don’t know,” Scott mutters. “After the bus crash, I didn’t - ” he shakes his head, easing back onto the road.

“Didn’t what?” Stiles prompts. Weird thing is, he’s asked Derek about that day but never Scott.

“I didn’t want to drive, OK?” Scott says, drumming on the steering wheel. “I mean, I did, I had to, but it really freaked me out. And then today Brendan - ”

He doesn’t have to tell Stiles that the kid’s foot in the bear trap hit a little too close to home. He’d felt it in his dad’s too-tight hug back at the scene. Stiles punches Scott’s shoulder. “Dad said you were really great, man.”

Scott bites his lip. “Thanks.”

“Hey,” says Stiles, pointing. “There’s Lydia.”

Except when they park behind the Prius, the redhead is nowhere to be seen. “Stay here,” Scott says. Stiles snorts, because where exactly does the alpha think he’s gonna go? He watches Scott tromp back to the treeline as he yells, “LYDIA!” He jogs back to the car and hauls open the passenger door. “You think she was out here because of Brendan?” Stiles nods. “Do you think she went into the woods after him?”

Stiles uses Scott for leverage so he can drag himself out of the car. “I have no idea how Lydia’s powers work,” he says honestly, propping himself up on the door as Scott circles the Prius. He notices something shiny on the ground and jabs a finger at it. “There. What’s that?”

“Don’t know,” Scott calls from where he’s rooting around in Lydia’s car. “Hey, Stiles, she left her purse in here.”

“Are you seriously going to make me limp all the way over there?” Stiles complains when Scott doesn’t emerge on command.

Scott finally crawls out of the Prius. “What did you see?” Stiles points again. Scott plucks it out of the dirt. “Shit.”

“What?” says Stiles, and he tries to take a little hop but almost brains himself on the car door. He winces. He’d never gotten a chance to take that Vicodin. “What is it, Scott?”

Scott drops a silver bullet into Stiles’ hand. It’s a .44 stamped with a _fleur-de-lis_. Scott circles the car muttering, “I trusted him.”

“Who, Argent?” says Stiles, scrambling to get back in the car. “This is his calling card, right?”

Scott’s gripping the steering wheel with both hands. “Weeks ago, he told me we should just take Lydia to the Calaveras, let her explain what happened to Allison. He thought Araya would trust a banshee. But I thought it was too risky. How could I be sure - ”

“Scott, do you know what my dad was doing _right_ before he got the call about Brandon?” Stiles interrupts. _Brendan, whatever._ Scott shakes his head. “Motorist assist, a woman who’d taken a wrong turn near the preserve. Dad thought her car had been disabled somehow. He said he pulled a little metal disk off the engine and it started right up. What if - what if all this is some kind of distraction?”

“For what?”

Stiles rakes a hand through his hair. “Let’s pretend for a second we can trust Argent - don’t give me that look, even you have to admit this looks bad - and believe he wouldn’t knowingly risk Lydia’s life. How is that going to end it? Why would Araya care? Isn’t she here to kill _you?”_

It’s all clearly too much for Scott, whom Stiles can practically hear chanting _no claws no claws no claws_ his knuckles are so white. “I don’t know!” he bursts. “Argent said - ”

“Forget what Argent said!” Stiles says. “Just - we’re missing something here. I spent hours going through that genealogy you made me give back to Argent. Hunters die _all the time_. Generations of Calaveras women have died young. Some of them younger than Allison. Why would Araya - ”

“I don’t know!” Scott snaps.

Getting irritated with Scott won’t help Stiles make his case. “Scott, you have to listen to me. You need to go to the loft. I’m pretty sure Derek’s about to walk into a trap.”

Scott shakes his head. “Derek’s not at the loft. I asked him to take Malia home.”

“But he didn’t,” Stiles says, waving his hand. “While you were getting the car, he asked her, ‘Want to spar?’ She shrugged and said, ‘OK.’ So they headed back toward town, not her dad’s.”

Scotts pulls back out on 191. “But why are you so convinced it’s Derek they’re after?”

 _Because, Scotty. When Argent said their family was matrilineal, he didn’t mean his._ “Can you just trust me, Scott?”

“OK, OK, I’ll drop you off at my mom’s - ”

“There isn’t _time,”_ Stiles insists. “Scotty, please. I know - I know a lot’s changed, but I’m still your best friend, right?”

There’s a beat. “Always,” says Scott.

*           *           *

Derek hears the shotgun cock a second too late. The old freight elevator is already clattering to a stop outside the penthouse.

_It’s a trap._

Malia’s hand closes around his wrist. “What was - ”

He shakes his head. “Listen to me,” he says, voice low, “the hunters will be waiting for us when the door opens. I’ll try to head them off. If you can get to the eleventh floor, there’s a fire escape at the end of the hall.”

The werecoyote blinks. “What about you?” she whispers as the door clatters open.

“Don’t worry about me,” says Derek, shoving her to the side and shifting with a roar. A flashbang detonates a second later. The hallway fills with smoke as three hunters come at him with tasers. “Malia, run!”

He manages to deflect one set of barbs. Two others catch him in the back, and a third latches to his thigh. He howls as electricity surges through his body, dropping him to his knees. He plucks off one of the electrodes, but he’s not fast enough. A heavy boot kicks him in the back and pins him to the ground.

 _“Le coyote!”_ someone yells. _“Le coyote!”_

Two of the hunters thunder down the stairs after Malia. The boot pushes experimentally against Derek’s spine. _“Hale,”_ snarls Severo.

“Chain him up, _mijo,”_ calls a female voice. Severo sends another shock through Derek’s body, then drags the werewolf to his feet. Araya is smirking as she spins her dagger idly. “It’s good to see you again,” she says, patting Derek’s cheek as he passes.

He snaps his razor-sharp teeth at her. Several floors below, he hears the hunters tussling with Malia.

“You are probably wondering how I got in,” Araya asks as two of her henchmen shackle Derek to the metal staircase.

The werewolf looks up. Sure enough, Argent is standing in the shadows, arms crossed. Derek grunts, “I have an idea.”

“The alpha,” Araya says with a smirk, “told Christophe how to bypass your security system.”

There’s a loud crash just outside the building. Vindictively, Derek hopes it’s Malia tossing the other hunters out a window. “I saved your life,” Derek spits.

“You also killed my wife,” says Argent, and he drags a bound and gagged Lydia out from the shadows with him. He nods at the Mexican huntress. “Where do you want her?”

No sane person has ever licked her lips quite like Araya does. “Let’s make things interesting,” she says. “Shackle her to _le lobo_. A few volts should be enough to get him talking.”

Argent jerks Lydia roughly by the arm to where Severo is attaching jumper cables to the stairs. Out of options, Derek grits, “What do you want?”

*           *           *

The first hunter goes down easily enough. Malia kicks him in the face and he flies back, toppling over the railing. He lands on his back on the floor below and doesn’t stir.

But the other hunter stands between Malia and the fire escape. He racks his gun. “Ever been hit with a wolfsbane bullet, ugly?” he taunts, taking aim.

Malia dives to the right. She manages to avoid his bullet, but she rams her shoulder so hard into the wall she knocks loose a few bricks. She gropes for one, hurling it at the hunter and knocking the gun from his hand. He looks so stunned she can’t help but brag, “I made too many girls on the softball team cry, so they let me play Little League instead.” She springs to her feet.

“Why I - ”

He lunges. He’s surprisingly strong for a human, and Malia’s shoulder is still healing. She feels her flesh tear as he sinks a small knife into her leg. She howls, slashing wildly. Her claws rend his leather jacket, but he manages to grab her wrist. He breaks it easily. She tries to knee him in the groin. He grabs her other arm and spits in her face.

“You look like her, you know,” he says, yanking Malia up by her hair.

Malia stops resisting. “Like who?”

“Your mother,” he declares savagely, slamming Malia face-first into the wall and breaking her nose.

At this, Malia’s head snaps back up. “You know my mother?” she asks, her own blood dripping into her mouth. They’re ten, fifteen feet from the window, tops. If she can somehow throw him, she might have a chance to reach the fire escape and warn Scott.

But she might lose her only shot at more information about her mother.

The hunter’s grip on her hair tightens. “Everyone knows your mother,” he hisses into her ear. “Too bad when you meet her, she’ll have come to kill you.”

Malia elbows him in the gut. “You’re lying,” she says, heart hammering as he doubles over.

She’s not expecting him to pop back up with the rifle. “Am I?” he asks, leveling his gun at her. “I’d run if I were you, _la loba_. I’d run, and I wouldn’t stop running until - ”

Malia doesn’t hear the rest. She’s hurtling toward the window. The glass breaks. She’s falling - falling - _falling -_

*           *           *

“Where do you want this one?”

Lydia’s head jerks up at the sound of a new voice. The tall, bald hunter who’d laughed earlier as Argent bound her wrists is back, dragging an unconscious Malia behind him. His jacket is ripped and his face is starting to bruise, but he looks infinitely better than the werecoyote, who leaves a slick trail of blood in her wake.

Argent pounces. “What happened to her?” he demands. “We have a - ”

The other hunter pushes Argent back. “Relax,” he says, letting Malia drop. “She tried to escape through the window. Too bad the only way out was eleven floors down.”

Lydia flinches. There’s a tickle in her throat she swallows as Argent kneels, pressing two fingers to Malia’s neck. “She’s OK, Derek,” the hunter declares. “She’ll heal.”

But Derek’s not looking at Argent for confirmation. He’s looking at _her_. Lydia manages to nod. Araya just chuckles. “See?” she says. “We play by the rules. Now tell me, from which wolf did Scott McCall steal his power? Then we can be on our way, and you can tend to your cousin.”

“I told you,” Derek says for the third time, “Scott didn’t steal his power. He really is a true alpha.”

“Perhaps - ” Araya paces back and forth, idly playing with her little dagger, the one she’s already jabbed into Derek so many times Lydia’s lost count “ - perhaps his spark is _yours,_ Derek Hale.”

Derek’s eyes flash a piercing, electric blue. “Wouldn’t that make me dead?” he says dryly.

“I don’t know,” says Araya, and she stares pointedly at Lydia, “your family doesn’t always stay dead long.”

*           *           *

Scott pulls into the lot and immediately smells blood, sweet and pungent. Whoever’s hurt must’ve bled _a lot_. “Stay here,” he tells Stiles.

“But - ”

“I mean it,” Scott interrupts. “If the hunters are here, I can’t protect you and fight them.”

He slams the door before Stiles can say another word. Inside Derek’s building, he hits the elevator call button to throw off the hunters and takes off running, charging up a dozen flights of stairs. On the eleventh floor there’s been a fight, brick dust and bits of glass littering the hall. Scott slows down so he can listen to the assorted voices upstairs in the penthouse. He hears Derek, Araya, Severo, at least two others. He can smell Malia’s blood and Lydia’s fear.

His heart sinks when he hears Argent. He takes off running again, taking the last two flights of stairs three and four at a time and barrelling through the loft door. The hunter is hovering over Malia’s prone form. _“I trusted you!”_ he bellows.

That trust gets Scott shot in the chest.

Scott staggers back as Araya begins to clap. “The _true alpha_ comes to save his friends.”

He spits out a mouthful of blood. “I always come for my friends,” he says, clutching his chest as he glares at Argent. _“You_ know that.”

Argent turns to Araya. “It’s time.”

Scott can feel his ribs shifting beneath his broken skin, trying to force the bullet back out. He’s surprised Argent didn’t shoot him with wolfsbane, but with Araya about to come at him, he’s not going to question it.

Except the huntress reaches for Lydia instead, grabbing the banshee by the neck and severing her gag. “You can scream,” Araya says, wagging her finger, “but I will have to kill you.”

Scott hears Lydia swallow. He also hears the elevator, slowly rising. _Stiles._ He closes his eyes.

“Like we talked about, Lydia,” says Argent. “Tell Araya what happened to Allison.”

“S-she was killed by the oni,” Lydia stammers, eyes crossing as she stares helplessly at Araya’s dagger. “Scott would n-never have hurt Allison.”

The elevator dings. There’s a _scrape-click, scrape-click_ as Stiles drags his walker across the old hardwoods.

Araya’s ranting too hard to listen.   _“Lies,”_ she insists, “I will not be tricked by a banshee.”

“What about a fox?” Stiles calls. His arms tremble as he plods, achingly slow, into the loft. He’s covered in a thin sheen of sweat, steeped in anxiety and fear. “Because that’s what got the best of your granddaughter.”

Scott’s brow knits in confusion. _Granddaughter?_

*           *           *

Argent’s carefully considered plan goes to hell the minute Stiles limps into the loft and spills his biggest secret. Scott gives him an imploring look. “Granddaughter?”

Argent ignores the alpha. “Araya, don’t listen to him.”

His mother-in-law lets go of Lydia and rounds on him. _“No man,”_ she hisses, “tells a Calavera _woman_ what to do.” She motions for her henchmen to lower their guns. “I am listening.”

“I know it’s hard to believe _now_ \- ” Stiles rests his forearms on his walker as if to prove a point “ - but a few months ago _I_ was the biggest bad Beacon Hills had ever seen. The nogitsune.”

Araya’s face contorts. _“You - ”_

“Good,” Stiles interrupts, and he stares pointedly at Argent. “Then he told you. I guess he’s not totally worthless after all. I have to say, Chris, when you took Lydia, I figured you’d sell me out, too. But your mother-in-law actually looks surprised.” He turns back to Araya. “Anyway, if you’re here to avenge Allison, I’m the one you want. _I_ killed your granddaughter. She died trying to save me.”

Araya’s eyes narrow. “How did - ”

Scott’s not clutching his chest anymore. “No,” he whispers. “No way.”

Stiles sways dangerously on his one foot. “When Allison’s dad told her their family was surprisingly forward thinking among hunters,” he tells the alpha, “he didn’t mean the Argents. He meant the family he married into, his wife’s family. The Calaveras.”

Argent flinches.

“Two dying dynasties,” Stiles continues. “I bet it seemed like a _great_ idea at the time. Chris over there got to get away from his psychotic father, marry into a family that still had a code. But then your oldest daughter died, and suddenly you had to trust an Argent to produce your heir. Man, I bet that _really_ pissed you off.”

“You have some nerve,” Araya rages, advancing on Stiles, “acting like you know anything about my - ”

“But I’m not wrong,” Stiles boasts. It’s true. Argent nods briskly when Scott looks to him for confirmation. “Listen to me, lady, Scott is _not_ the one you want to kill. He destroyed the nogitsune. He already avenged your granddaughter.”

Araya’s nostrils flare. “Did he?”

“He did,” says Stiles, whose knee looks like it’s going to buckle at any moment. “Beacon Hills is a better place because of Scott. If you take him out, then who’s going to stop the next nogitsune or dark druid or whatever the hell else the nemeton throws at us, huh? No, you’d be better off killing the scrawny, weak, pathetic kid who let himself get possessed.”

There’s a lump rising in Argent’s throat. He watches Scott surge forward. “No, no, no!” the alpha cries as Severo catches him with a taser. “Stiles, please,” Scott pleads, “don’t do this.”

“Will you just _shut up?”_ Stiles snaps, glaring at Scott. “You’re a freaking true alpha, Scotty. You can do more good than I’ll ever be able to do. Especially - ” his eyes flicker to his missing leg “ - now.”

Araya presses the blade to Stiles’ throat. “You are willing to die for your friends?”

Stiles swallows. “Allison was,” he whispers.

There’s a long pause, at least a minute, before Araya throws down the dagger. “Come on,” she barks. “We’re leaving.” She pauses as she passes him. “Well? Are you coming?”

Argent stands perfectly still.

*           *           *

Agent McCall claps Parrish’s bad shoulder a shade too hard before he says, “Welcome to the big leagues.” He lifts a finger in the air and makes a circling motion. “Everyone in position.”

For Parrish and a handful of other Beacon Hills deputies McCall invited along, that means _stay in your vehicle and don’t get shot_. Parrish slides into the driver’s seat. “Seriously?” he says to Deputy Haines, sitting shotgun and playing some cell phone game.

“What?” says Haines, thumbs flying fast over the touchscreen. “You know we’re just here to escort the feds back to the station, right?”

Parrish is actually a little grateful for Deputy Arroyo, who reaches forward to pluck the phone out of Haines’ hands.

“Hey!” Haines protests. “I was about to set a new high score - ”

“You can play Candy Crush later,” Arroyo growls, pointing out the window as FBI, DEA and ATF agents silently surround the old industrial building.

Parrish sits, rigid, ready to draw his sidearm if necessary. He’s packing wolfsbane bullets just in case. He doubts anyone else knows the Calaveras’ actual trade. McCall thinks this building - it’s one of several purchased last year by Strayer Industries for redevelopment - is abandoned. But Parrish knows the lights on in the penthouse mean Derek Hale is in the building.

Haines cups his ear. “What was that?” he demands.

“What was what?” Arroyo spits. But they all hear it this time: a howl. Arroyo sits back. “Coyotes,” she says with a shudder. “I wish they’d stay on the preserve.”

“Quiet,” says Parrish because the animal sounded wounded to him, and he doesn’t want to think of any of the supernatural teenagers injured.

“Who do you think you - ”

Parrish points to the agents, now charging ahead in full riot gear. He can hear McCall’s voice, amplified, calling, “Hands up!” on the loudspeaker.

There’s gunfire. It’s short, quick, a volley on each side, maybe. Parrish closes his eyes, wills his radio not to squawk to life with the ten code for officer down. It doesn’t. He feels his phone buzz in his pocket. He glances back to make sure Arroyo isn’t looking, then slips it out to check the message.

**+1 (415) 555-0123: Is Araya in custody?**

In the garish blue-and-red light, McCall is marching a handcuffed Severo Calavera toward the cruiser. Parrish types a quick response to Argent and pockets his phone.

*           *           *

“Scott. Scott. _Scott.”_

The alpha stops, takes a deep breath. His dad’s the one person he’d been hoping to avoid. Scott doesn’t turn around. “Hey, Dad.”

Rafe jogs over to him. “What are you doing here?”

He wishes he could lie to his dad the way Stiles used to lie to the sheriff. But fibs don’t come quite so easily to Scott. “Uh, I was dropping off my friend Lydia.” He jerks his thumb in the banshee’s direction. If he focuses, he can hear her laughing throatily at something Parrish said. “She got a call from an Agent Mitchell saying they found her car out on the 191. What’s that - does it have something to do with all this?”

“Scott.”

“What?”

Rafe sighs, throwing an arm around his son’s shoulders. Scott throws it off. “Why is it,” the FBI agent asks, “every time I come to Beacon Hills, your friends are involved? Where’s Kira tonight, huh? What about Stiles?”

“Kira’s at home,” says Scott easily because it’s true. What he says next is - well, _half-true._ “And Stiles is probably still asleep. He had a pretty rough time at PT today.”

In reality, Stiles is passed out on Derek’s couch with a goose egg where he brained himself on the edge of his walker when he collapsed. Malia’s up there healing as well. Apparently, handing Araya and Severo to the feds had been Argent’s plan all along.

Rafe steers Scott away from the bustle of law enforcement officers and crosses his arms. “Is that so? You’re telling me if I called the sheriff _right now,_ he’d tell me Stiles was asleep in his own bed?”

Actually, if Rafe called the sheriff right now, Scott doubts John would pick up. The last he’d talked to Stiles’ dad, he was en route to pick up Scott’s mom so she could make sure none of Stiles’ new bumps and bruises were serious. “Yes,” Scott lies.

“I don’t believe you.”

Scott’s done. “OK,” he says, and he turns to walk away.

“I’m not the patsy you think I am, Scott.” The alpha freezes. “I’m going to figure out, whatever it is your friends are mixed up in.”

“You do that,” Scott calls over his shoulder.

*           *           *

Argent squeezes Lydia’s shoulder before he leaves the sheriff’s office. “I meant it,” he tells the banshee. “I’d never hurt a friend of Allison’s.”

Lydia watches him go, shoulders hunched, and wonders if she’ll ever see the hunter again. She isn’t sure if she’s ready to forgive him for the stunt he just pulled, but it’s hard to see her last tie to Allison disappear into the night. Lydia rubs her neck, still sore where Araya had grabbed her. In the interrogation room down the hall, Scott’s dad is yelling at Severo Calavera.

As for Lydia, she’d finished giving her statement to Deputy Arroyo an hour ago. Now she’s just waiting for the FBI to clear her.

“Miss Martin?” Lydia’s head jerks up. The Latina deputy clutches the case file, white-knuckled, a tall man in a dark suit hovering just behind her. “Agent Mitchell here says you’re free to go.”

Lydia rises from the wooden bench with a close-lipped smile. “You have my number,” she says as she breezes past the expressionless FBI agent.

Maybe because all Lydia has to look forward to is a berating from her father, she pauses when she sees Parrish, still burning the midnight oil. He’s clutching his mug - he drinks his coffee black, Lydia notes - like a lifeline. She stands there for thirty seconds before he jerks his head up.

“Lydia,” he says, Adam’s apple bobbing.

“So,” she says, perching on the edge of his desk, “think you’ll be back on days after this?”

There’s a quick, furtive glance at the sheriff’s empty office. “Who knows?” Parrish mumbles.

Lydia leans forward so she can read that day’s to-do list. “Better mail that birthday present,” she tells him, wondering who Sue is.

Parrish groans. “Dammit,” he swears. “I knew I was forgetting - ”

“Why didn’t you go home this morning after your shift ended?” she asks.

Parrish tugs at the collar of his rumpled uniform shirt with one finger. “You know why,” he mutters.

Lydia does. Argent already told her how Parrish confronted him that morning. She arches an eyebrow. “That took all day?”

“Uh, I was working on something else, too,” says Parrish, and he pulls a manila folder from his desk drawer. “The other day, you came in asking who died in Beacon County on May 12? But I couldn’t find anything?”

Lydia takes it suspiciously. Inside, there’s a crooked fax from the Beacon County Coroner that says _no reports._ “You broke the rules.”

Parrish gets so red when he’s embarrassed. Lydia likes it. “I called the coroner to ask how many deaths he usually handles a day. On average, 13.”

Lydia does the math in her head. “That’s a higher mortality rate than the country as a whole,” she says.

“Why do you - ” Parrish shakes his head, like he’s changed his mind and doesn’t want to know. “It _is_ higher than Butte and Tehama counties. But that’s the thing. There weren’t any deaths on May 12 in those counties, either.”

“That’s not possible.”

“It’s happened before,” says Parrish, and suddenly his hand is brushing against hers, flipping to the second-to-last page in the folder, “two days in January 2006, no deaths in a tri-county area.”

“What happened?” Lydia finds herself asking. The obvious answer is “nothing,” but there’s one more page in the file.

“An entire family was murdered,” says Parrish. He clears his throat. “Well, almost.”

Lydia doesn’t hear the rest. She’s too busy staring at a photo of the only other banshee she knows, Meredith Walker.

*           *           *

Stiles isn’t in pain when he wakes up. For a half-second, he’s afraid he’s landed himself in the hospital, but the sheets underneath him are soft and smell like home, not stiff and starchy like the ones at Beacon Hills Memorial.

“How are you feeling?” Derek wants to know. The werewolf’s fingers rest on Stiles’ elbow, pain spidering up his arm and disappearing under his shirtsleeve. The henley he’s wearing has seen better days.

“Uh,” says Stiles thickly, struggling to sit up. That hurts, even with Derek there to take the edge off. “Everyone’s OK? Did Malia - ”

“Relax, she’s OK,” says Derek, hooking an arm around Stiles’ waist and helping to prop him up on his pillows. “Scott’s dad swept in with a team of agents and arrested Araya and Severo.”

“Huh,” says Stiles thoughtfully. Maybe Rafe isn’t totally useless. He’s about to make a crack at the agent’s expense when he hears muffled shouting in the kitchen, Melissa haranguing Scott in English _and_ Spanish. Stiles winces. “How much trouble’s he in?”

Derek settles on, “Some.” His grip on Stiles’ elbow tightens ever-so-slightly. “Your dad hasn’t joined in, at least.”

“Nah,” Stiles says. “He’s not one for yelling at other people’s kids. Melissa, on the other hand - ”

As if on cue, Melissa’s Spanish-language tirade comes to an abrupt end as a door slams in the kitchen. Derek huffs a little. “They could keep it - ”

“Derek, relax,” Stiles interrupts. “I’m fine, aren’t I?”

The werewolf’s eyes narrow. “You could have been killed.”

“Come on, Argent never would have let it get that far.”

“I can hear your heart beating faster, Stiles.”

Stiles bites his lip. “OK,” he tries, “then why don’t we go with what I did was really brave - ”

“It was really stupid,” Derek interjects. “Really stupid, Stiles.”

“Nuh-uh,” Stiles challenges. “No one else worked out that Araya was Argent’s mother-in-law.”

“I would have,” says Derek through gritted teeth.

“When?” Stiles presses, closing his eyes. Now he can feel every bruise. “Next week?”

Instead of answering, Derek says, “You should take a Percocet.”

Stiles opens an eye. “On one condition,” he barters. Derek arches an eyebrow. “Admit it, it was brave.”

“It was stupid,” Derek repeats. There’s a pause. Then the werewolf says, “And a little brave.”

Stiles grins, pumping his fist. It’s a bad move, one that sends pain rippling through his back and chest. “Yeah,” he says, a little woozy, “yeah, I’ll take that Percocet now.”

Derek shakes two into Stiles’ palm. “I can stay, take the edge off for you.”

Stiles shakes his head. “I’ll be fine, man,” he says, swallowing the pills dry. Derek looks unsure. “Seriously, I’m fine. You don’t need to take my pain whenever I have a little ache.”

What Stiles is feeling now is more than a little ache. “But - ”

Stiles flips to his side, away from the werewolf. “Go,” he says, waving his hand to say _c’mon shoo_. “If you want to take someone’s pain, Malia jumped out an eleventh story window.”

All he did was fall three feet to the floor.

*           *           *

Scott knows he shouldn’t walk out in the middle of his mom’s tirade, but he can’t take her yelling any longer. How she expects him to control Stiles, he’s not sure. So Scott cuts Melissa off. “He’s not my problem, OK?” Scott bursts out, and the next thing he knows, he’s storming out through the Stilinskis’ garage.

“I don’t know where he thinks he’s going,” he hears Melissa tell the sheriff. “He better not take my car - ”

Scott takes her car. He’s not headed anywhere in particular, except he finds himself turning on Commerce Way. He parks in the garage below Argent’s apartment. He doesn’t see the hunter’s car, but that’s OK. He’ll just wait until Argent finishes up at the sheriff’s department.

But when Scott steps off the elevator, the door for No. 402 is slightly ajar.

The alpha flicks his claws. “Mr. Argent?” Scott calls. No answer. A warm breeze pushes the door the rest of the way open. Scott rounds the corner into the hunter’s office.

It’s empty.

So is the rest of the apartment. In the kitchen, the stainless steel appliances gleam, spotless, like they were never used.

Finally, Scott pushes open the door to Allison’s room.

Only her curtains remain, billowing slightly. Scott crosses the room to close the window, and he almost trips over a small box.

_For Scott._

It’s stuffed full of ticket stubs and photobooth strips, Scott’s eyes squeezed shut so he wouldn’t trigger the lens flare. The alpha swallows hard. Something sharp pricks his finger, but it’s healed before he can find the offending object.

It’s one of Allison’s silver arrowheads.

Scott’s shoulders begin to shake. Allison’s dead, Argent’s gone, Stiles will never be the same.

The alpha howls, low and pitiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know [where to find me](http://em2mb.tumblr.com). No, seriously. It's lonely in my corner of the internet - won't you please be my friend?
> 
> As always, your feedback is appreciated.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How can I help?” Derek wants to know.
> 
> “Why do you want to?” John counters.
> 
> Now Derek remembers how Stiles used to sit for hours with the bestiary, chewing on his tongue, asking the werewolf a million questions (of which he’d only answer one or two) about the supernatural. He’d seen a glimpse of that kid through the opiate-haze as Stiles pestered him with questions about the Calaveras. “I get that it’s hard to see how things will get better on the worst day of your life.”
> 
> “Honestly, Derek, on my list of bad days, yesterday wouldn’t even _rank.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING: This chapter contains scenes that could be upsetting for those who've struggled with depression or suicidal thoughts. For a full warning (with spoilers) see author's note at the bottom.**

His wife’s grave is overgrown, too-long grass tickling the lowest row of words the way it had in the months after Lahey’s murder when the cemetery didn’t have a caretaker. The inscription weathers a little more every year, John thinks, as he sweeps the grass aside with his fingers.

_Claudia A Stilinski_

_May 1, 1970 - Jan 7, 2004_

_Beloved wife and mother_

Next to her, above the grave meant for him, a few sprigs of grass have poked up through the dirt. A lump wells up in John’s throat. The words seem sharper. The pain is still so fresh.

_KJ “Stiles” Stilinski_

_June 6, 1994 - April 12, 2012_

_Beloved son_

“I’m sorry,” John tells his dead wife before he wakes up, “but he’d have killed me if I put his given name out there for all his friends to see.”

(It’s too late for Stiles to kill him now.)

The sheets stick to his hot skin. John kicks at them as he gropes for his phone in the moonlit room. It’s 3:03 a.m, no messages.

 _Stiles didn’t die in the bus crash_ , he reminds himself, but he’s throwing back the covers, getting out of bed. He has to check. He has to see Stiles breathing with his own two eyes.

John pulls on a pair of sweatpants, padding out of the master bedroom. His back twinges - it’s still giving him trouble, though Stiles’ mobility has improved enough he doesn’t need his old man as much now - and he pauses in the hallways to rub the trouble spot. His mouth feels like sandpaper. He’s going to have a headache in the morning. _Should have skipped that last drink_.

The sleepless nights didn’t start when Stiles got hurt. John’s job is a stressful one, and he opens the door to his son’s old room out of habit. Except neither Stiles nor John has been in here since before the bus crash.

The first thing John notices is Stiles’ open window, cracked an inch or so, rain collecting on the sill. He crosses the room automatically, tries to close it. But the wood's swollen, and _of course it won’t budge_ , it’s been open for months now. John spends several frustrating minutes trying every which way he can think of, finally conceding he’s better off asking one of the werewolves.

Scott, John thinks, has been in here since the accident. The dresser drawers hang open, half-full, with the slightly-rifled appearance of a crime scene after a hasty search. John’s turned enough of them in his day to know. He remembers being surprised to see Stiles in a hoodie and gym shorts one afternoon at the hospital. He can certainly imagine Melissa ordering Scott to the house - he’d given the kid a key himself, when Scott was 12, living with Rafe and quarrelling constantly with his dad - to pack Stiles a bag. He’d appreciated it at the time, and he appreciates it now, swiping dust off the dresser with two fingers.

That’s when he notices it, a framed photo of him and Stiles at a picnic a couple years before. John has a copy of this photo, too. It’s on his desk at work. Had Melissa taken it? He thinks she must have. Everything else, the rest of the house, it’s all frozen in time, exactly how Claudia left it before she died. Before she got sick.

The lump wells up in John’s throat, just as it had in the dream. He swallows it, remembering he still needs to check on Stiles. He passes the cluttered spare room on his way down the stairs. It had been 10-month-old Stiles’ nursery when they first moved in, painted a gender-neutral pale green in case their next child was a girl. Stiles had moved across the hall a year later, but no baby ever moved in.

John avoids the stair that creaks and practically tip-toes across the kitchen. He’s careful not to make a sound as he turns the doorknob.

Not that it matters. Stiles had taken a fistful of painkillers before bed, and he’s out cold, breathing heavily through his mouth. There’s a puddle of drool on his pillowcase. John can’t help it, fussing with the covers. His son doesn’t stir, but he hardly seems at peace, either, hand rucking up the sheets as he rubs his stump.

*           *           *

Stiles taps the eraser-end of his pencil against his notebook, a rhythmic _thwap thwap thwap_ reverberating across the room and driving Scott bonkers. “Can you quit that?” he snaps.

Stiles - and the pencil - freeze. “Sorry,” he says quickly. “Sometimes I forget - ”

“It’s fine,” says Scott, squinting at the book in his lap. He’s been trying to knock out his summer reading all week, but he’s not making much progress. The alpha rubs his eyes and reaches for the lamp next to the sheriff’s chair. He flicks the switch. Nothing. He flicks it again.

“Yeah, it’s burnt out,” says Stiles unnecessarily.

Scott tries not to let the irritation creep into his voice as he rises from the sheriff’s chair. “I noticed.” He flips the wall switch. The overhead lights don’t turn on, either. “Uh, Stiles?”

Stiles is fighting with his math book again, trying in vain to keep it from sliding off his lap. “Yeah, buddy?”

“Why are all the lights in the living room burnt out?”

“Are they?” says Stiles, heart thumping erratically as Scott flips the switch up and down. “Well, you know where we keep the bulbs.”

Scott should probably ask Stiles what’s up, but instead he just stalks out of the living room and out to the garage, scanning the chaotic shelves for a box of compact fluorescents. There’s a four-pack wedged between a box labeled “X-MAS” and the massive, chipped planter that sat on the Stilinskis’ driveway until Stiles backed into it while learning to drive. But when Scott opens the box, there’s a single light bulb inside. “Hey Stiles,” he hollers, searching now for the step ladder, “tell your dad to buy more bulbs.”

Back in the living room, Stiles watches as Scott unfolds the ladder and unscrews the bulb, which isn’t just burnt out but actually broken. “Did Kira come by today?”

“Yeah,” says Stiles, heart hammering again, “I needed help with one of her dad’s assignments.”

The bulb glows warm under Scott’s fingertips. “You just lied to me.”

“No, I didn’t,” Stiles insists.

Scott hops off the ladder. “Yes, you did.”

They glare at each other for several seconds before Stiles says, “I’m just helping her with some kitsune stuff, Scott. Relax.”

“Kitsune stuff?”

“You know, like she’s been practicing all summer with Noshiko. Tai chi for tails, or whatever.”

Scott blinks. “Kira’s earning tails?”

“No - ” Stiles breaks off. “Dude, have this conversation with your girlfriend, not me.”

In the kitchen, Scott tosses the broken bulb with more force than necessary. He takes several deep breaths. He’d felt the same surge of jealousy a few days earlier when he’d found Kira in Stiles’ bedroom.

“Is it a wolf thing?”

Scott’s head snaps around at the sound of Stiles’ voice. Stiles grips his walker in the entryway between the kitchen and living room. Scott had been so preoccupied he hadn’t even heard Stiles get up.

“Is what a wolf thing?”

“You don’t like it when Kira spends time over here.”

 _No, I don’t like finding my girlfriend in your bed._ “That’s not true.”

Stiles runs a knuckle across his lips. “Scotty, you haven’t exactly been subtle about it.”

Scott brushes past Stiles on his way back to the living room. “Hang out with Kira,” he calls over his shoulder. “I don’t care.”

“Maybe you could ask Argent - ”

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Scott snaps, rounding on Stiles. “Argent’s gone.”

It’s Stiles’ turn to blink. “He is?”

Scott clenches and unclenches his fist. He nods. “Yeah. I haven’t seen him since the night - ”

They haven’t talked about what happened the night Stiles offered himself up to Araya Calavera.

“Right,” says Stiles uneasily. “Uh, so have you like, _looked_ for - ”

“What do you think?” Scott interjects. “I’m telling you, I went to the apartment that night. It was totally empty. The door wasn’t even locked.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah,” Scott agrees, chest tightening as he thinks of the mementos Argent left in Allison’s room. “Yeah.”

Stiles places a tentative hand on Scott’s arm. “You want to talk - ”

The alpha shrugs him off. _“No.”_

“Scott - ”

“Let it go, Stiles,” Scott growls.

*           *           *

Derek takes a break from roughing in the shower to gulp down a Gatorade, admiring his handiwork from the doorway as he gnaws on a protein bar. He’s not sure what possessed him to finally work on the loft, but since he’s not sleeping, the middle of the night is as good a time as any for home renovations.

What Derek can’t decide is how far he should go to make the place accessible for Stiles. He’d installed a grab bar a week earlier in the McCall’s downstairs bathroom at Melissa’s request. But Derek and Stiles aren't close. When Stiles had showered at the loft before, it had always been life or death, time to rinse blood down the rusty drain. Stiles’ days tempting supernatural fate should be over, though the recent confrontation with the Calaveras has given Derek doubts.

Derek ends up hunched over his laptop at the kitchen counter, watching a YouTube video on how to build a wheelchair accessible shower. The guy keeps using acronyms like “BKA” and “AKA” that Derek has to look up, and the next thing he knows it’s 4:30 a.m., and he’s totally engrossed in an article about a doctor who works with wounded veterans. He’s pretty sure this is what Stiles would call a “Wikipedia death spiral,” which Derek knows because at least once a day the teen will look up from his laptop and ask the werewolf a question completely unrelated to his schoolwork.

But Derek’s clumsy amputee research isn’t without merit. He finds himself staring at a photo of a soldier whose residual limb is as short as Stiles’. Before he can talk himself out of it, he opens a new tab, navigates to the Beacon Hills Memorial website and searches for Bridget’s name. _No results._ Derek frowns. Then he remembers her mentioning her husband, Nate. He wonders if it’s possible she really married the scrawny kid who’d taken his sister to prom.

Apparently, yes, because typing “Bridget Townsend” into the search bar makes her bio pop right up. Derek composes four drafts before he’s ready to hit send.

 

To: [bridget.townsend@beaconhillsmemorial.com](mailto:bridget.townsend@beaconhillsmemorial.com)

From: [strayer.dh@gmail.com](mailto:strayer.dh@gmail.com)

Date: Wed, Aug 8, 2012 at 4:52 AM

Subject:

Bridget,

It's Derek Hale. I hope you don't mind me reaching out. I found your email on the hospital website and wanted to share this article with you. It's about a prosthetist who works with veterans who lost legs in Iraq and Afghanistan. I noticed in the second photo, the soldier's residual limb looks a lot like Stiles. I'm no expert, so I thought I would run it by you. Is it worth mentioning to Hank at Stiles’s next fitting? Maybe not, but I thought I would pass it along just in case.

Derek

 

Derek rubs his neck. Even werewolves get sore when they decide to forgo sleep to remodel the bathroom. What he needs is a hot shower and sleep. Derek considers skipping the shower - right now, the nearest one is at the 24-hour gym - but he’s so covered in dirt and grime he’s left streaks on his keyboard. He shuts his computer.

He’s slightly ahead of the morning exercise crew, which means he has his pick of showers and can just toss his keys and phone on the bench under his towel. Derek stands under the spray for a good while, trying to remember the last time he took a shower longer than five minutes. When he can’t, he thinks of Laura, who would probably tell him that’s all the reason he needs to order the more expensive tile he’s been eyeing at the Home Depot.

Derek towels off quickly and pulls on a pair of clean gym shorts. He’ll come back later to do his reps - well, if the sheriff doesn’t need him to take Stiles to PT - but right now the werewolf wants to sleep for a million years. Derek’s phone chimes.

 

**1 NEW E-MAIL**

**BRIDGET.TOWNSEND@BEA...**

 

To: [strayer.dh@gmail.com](mailto:strayer.dh@gmail.com)

From: [bridget.townsend@beaconhillsmemorial.com](mailto:bridget.townsend@beaconhillsmemorial.com)

Date: Wed, Aug 8, 2012 at 5:36 AM

Subject: Re:

Hi Derek!

Wow, someone's been doing they're homework! We too have been looking in medical journals. Returning veterans are absolutely changing the way we look at fitting amputees with prosthetic limbs. I am so glad you reached out because yes, I think what Dr. Novak is doing could be a solution for Stiles! I am going to have Hank call her team and see if they have any insights for us. (This is really common in our world! Every patient is unique and some cases - like Stiles! - are really tough.)

I think what you are doing for the Stilinski's is really great, btw. I told Nate the other day how good it was to see you back in Beacon Hills. If there is every anything you need just let us know.

-Bridget

Sent from my iPhone

 

Derek’s awake for ... _reasons,_ but he’s not sure why Bridget is. At least, not until the bell at the gym entrance jingles.

“Derek!” the perky physical therapist calls. She’s wearing a sports bra and faded jogging shorts stamped _Property of Beacon Hills High School,_ hair piled high on top of her head. She looks 17 again. Derek blinks. “I didn’t know you worked out here.”

“Uh, yeah,” Derek says.

She punches his arm. “Well, I’ll consider it an endorsement,” she says, dropping her keys in her bag. “I used to run every morning on the preserve, but Nate freaked out after what happened to that kid. He wants me to run _inside_ from now on.” She rolls her eyes.

“You’re still running,” says Derek, remembering cheering Laura’s relay team on at the state finals his freshman year, her senior.

“Five miles every morning,” Bridget chirps. “I see my first patient at 7, so I have to get an early start.”

Derek’s still holding his phone. He lifts it slightly. “I got your email. Thanks, uh, for replying,” he says. “I’m going to - ”

“I think it could work,” Bridget interrupts.

Derek lets go of the door handle. “You do?”

“I’m going to do more research this morning, but vacuum suspension is Stiles’ best shot. I’ll be honest, most of the amputations we see at the rehab center are complications from diabetes. Dr. Novak will have experience working with younger, more active amputees that Hank doesn’t.”

Derek’s skeptical. All he did was forward a link he thought was interesting. “You really think there’s something there?”

“Absolutely,” says Bridget. She starts to turn, then spins back around slowly. “Can I ask you a question?”

The last time Derek said yes to this question, Stiles had asked about Kate Argent, and he’s still having nightmares. “I guess.”

“You don’t - have to answer,” Bridget says quickly. “I tried so hard to get in touch with your sister after you guys left Beacon Hills. But it was like Laura and Derek Hale didn’t exist. Did you go by - ”

“Dad’s name,” Derek interjects. “We went by his name.”

Bridget averts her eyes. “The email, I figured. Well - ” she’s gripping her gym bag so tight her knuckles are turning white “ - good to see you, Derek.”

“Good to see you, too,” he mumbles.

*           *           *

“Should we wait - ” the new guidance counselor stares at the empty chair between Mr. Yukimura and Ms. Martin “ - for Coach Finstock?”

“No,” says Principal Thomas, glancing at the door, “I don’t think that’s necessary.” He clears his throat, lacing his fingers together on the table in front of him. “Well, let me just start by saying it’s good to have you back with us, Stiles.”

Stiles, who’s been bubbling in letters on a PTA handout for the last ten minutes, jerks his head up. “Uh, thanks,” he mutters as his dad plucks the pen away. It clatters loudly to the table.

“How’s this work?” John wants to know.

Ms. Graham stops shuffling the stack of papers in front of her. “Surely you’re familiar with the IEP process?” The sheriff shakes his head. “I could have sworn - ”

She produces a battered piece of paper and passes it triumphantly across the table. All Stiles sees is his mother’s signature and a date some 11 years previously before his dad snatches it up. “What is this?” John demands.

“Dad, it’s - ”

“That’s Stiles’ existing IEP,” Ms. Graham explains before Stile can get a word in edgewise. “You didn’t know he had one?”

“That’s my wife’s signature, not mine,” John says, sliding the paper back across the table. “Why Stiles needed an IEP in elementary school, I’m not sure.”

Stiles’ cheeks burn, remembering behavior contracts and being sent out in the hall when he wouldn’t stop talking. “Dad, it was when I was having trouble focusing, you know, the ADHD.”

No one listens to him.

“Obviously,” says Ms. Graham, “whatever we put in it today will focus on the accommodations and modifications Stiles needs to be successful at Beacon Hills High.”

 _“If_ that’s what Stiles wants,” Principal Thomas says quickly.

“Of course that’s what Stiles wants,” John snaps. “How else is he going to finish school?”

Stiles watches Ms. Graham get the side eye from the principal. “Well,” she says, “Stiles could attend classes at the alternative school, enroll in the California Virtual Academy, get his GED - ”

“My son’s not dropping out,” John interjects coolly.

Mr. Yukimura and Ms. Martin exchange a significant look. “Maybe we should ask - ”

Before Ms. Martin can finish, the principal says, “That’s not what Mrs. Graham was suggesting, Sheriff.”

“Sure sounded like it,” John mutters. He crosses his arms. So does the principal. “Stiles has PT three times a week. Those days, he’s going to need to miss last period to make it in time.”

It’s the counselor’s cue to jump back in. “That’s exactly what I meant by accommodations and modifications,” Mrs. Graham says. “If there’s no objection, I’ll schedule Stiles’ study hall for last period. He’ll be automatically excused on days he needs to leave early.”

There’s no objection.

“I’d also like to propose additional time for Stiles between classes. It’s my understanding Stiles will be using a walker or wheelchair - ”

“He’s not using a wheelchair,” the sheriff interrupts. “And later in the semester, he’ll be wearing his new prosthesis.”

Stiles, who’s picked up the pen and started doodling again, stops mid-scratch. Bridget had called the day before to tell his dad Hank was working with a prosthetist in Michigan who’d built legs for returning veterans and was certain she could design a socket for Stiles.

“Yes, well,” Mrs. Graham continues, “the hallways can get quite crowded during passing periods, and the last thing we want is for him to fall.”

Principal Thomas nods vigorously. “Keeping Stiles safe is our No. 1 priority.” _Yeah, right. You just want to avoid another lawsuit._ “We can figure out if it’s better for Stiles to leave early or arrive late once we’ve determined what courses he can take.”

“He’s a senior,” the sheriff says. “He’ll take senior classes.”

Stiles bites his lip.

“Actually,” says Mrs. Graham, clearly flustered, “until Stiles turns in the rest of his makeup work, he’s still a junior.”

John stares at Stiles. “You’re not done with your makeup work?”

“There’s a lot - ”

“Yes or no, Stiles.”

“No,” says Stiles, wishing he could sink under the table and escape all of their gazes.

“When I asked Stiles’ teacher to provide an update, only Mr. Yukimura and Ms. Martin indicated they had everything they needed. Until Stiles returns additional coursework, he’ll need to enroll in junior sections of his classes.” Ms. Graham flicks her tongue nervously across her lips. “Unfortunately, it’s also our policy that students can’t enroll in AP courses with incompletes on their transcripts.”

John can’t take it anymore. “Give me a break,” he complains. “It’s not like Stiles stopped turning in his homework. He was in the hospital for three months.”

Stiles is surprised when Mr. Yukimura offers, “I would like to reiterate, Stiles is welcome to take my class, regardless of his standing in other subjects.”

Ms. Martin opens her mouth, but she doesn’t get a chance to say anything before a spluttering Principal Thomas declares, “Either Stiles turns in the rest of his makeup work by next week, or he repeats his junior year. No exceptions.”

The sheriff doesn’t consult with Stiles. “He’ll have it turned in,” he says evenly. “Are we done here?” He’s already rising to his feet. “C’mon, son.”

Stiles has no choice but to limp after his dad.

*           *           *

“Give me a boost,” Stiles calls over his shoulder from inside the Jeep.

“A boost?” Kira repeats skeptically, watching as Stiles apparently tests the strength of the grab bar over the glove box. When she’d mentioned craving ice cream, this _wasn’t_ what she had in mind.

Stiles emerges from the Jeep. “Yeah, a boost,” he says, clutching his walker. Kira blinks. “You’re a badass, katana-wielding kitsune. How is this a problem?”

“What if I hurt you?” Kira asks. “What if - ”

She’s not expecting him to half-haul himself into the Jeep without warning. Kira ends up grabbing a fistful of Stiles’ gym short-clad ass and shoving him into the passenger seat.

“Was that really so hard?” Stiles wants to know.

Kira’s cheeks burn. There’s something that feels really, really wrong about having had her hands on Scott’s best friend’s ass. “No,” she squeaks.

“Then get in,” Stiles continues. “I want one of those brownie M&M Blizzards they’re advertising.”

Though if Kira’s not mistaken, he looks a little embarrassed, too. She slams the passenger door and walks around to the driver’s side. “Stiles?” she says.

He’s biting his thumbnail. “Yeah?”

“One problem,” says Kira. “I don’t know how to drive a stick.”

It’s Stiles’ turn to blink. “That’s OK,” he says after several seconds. “I’ll teach you.”

“Stiles - ”

“I never get out of the house,” he complains. “C’mon, Kira.”

Kira slides reluctantly into the driver’s seat, grip firm on the wheel. “I don’t know, Stiles.”

“Let’s just see if she starts up,” Stiles coaxes.

The first time Kira turns the keys in the ignition, the Jeep splutters. She’s sort of hoping that’ll be the end of it, except Stiles looks so heartbroken she tries again. Nothing. “Third time’s the charm, right?” she asks nervously.

“Right,” Stiles mutters.

There’s a horrible knocking from beneath the hood, but this time, the Jeep rumbles to life. “I can’t believe that actually worked,” Kira says.

This earns her a glare from Stiles. “You get the basic idea of how you do this, right?” Kira starts to nod, then shakes her head. He sighs. “Give me your hand.”

His fingers close around hers on the shifter. “OK, so you’re in neutral right now.” Stiles gives the gear shift a little wiggle. “This is first - second - third.”

“Uh huh,” says Kira, as Stiles leans over to point to the pedals.

“The clutch on the left. You have to step on it to shift gears. Use your left foot.” At this, he looks a little wistful. He clears his throat. “So we need to back out of the driveway.”

“So what, I just throw it in - ”

Stiles waves his arms frantically. “Clutch first! Clutch first! OK, now shift - and slowly let off.”

It’s nothing like driving her Toyota. “Why is it so hard to turn the wheel?” she wants to know.

Stiles just chuckles. “I’ll help you shift until you get the hang of it, OK? Just clutch when I say.”

He’s a surprisingly good sport the first time she kills it. He makes her drive around the block four times before he’ll take his hand off hers on the clutch, then three more times before he declares, “Yeah! Let’s go get ice cream!”

Kira’s so excited she accidentally stalls out. “Oops,” she says, flashing Stiles what she hopes is a charming smile.

Stiles isn’t amused. “Does that actually work on Scott?” he asks as the Jeep lurches forward. He has to throw a hand out to brace himself.

Kira bites her lip. “Sometimes,” she says quietly.

His hand on her shoulder is light. “What’s wrong?” Stiles asks.

“Nothing,” Kira says quickly.

“Kira - ”

“It’s stupid,” she says, coming to a stop at the top of the Stilinskis’ subdivision. She’s not expecting the Jeep to start rolling back. “What - ”

Stiles has already pulled the emergency brake. “Remember when we talked about hills?” he says dryly. “Shift into first, then get your hand over - good - did you feel that? That’s the gear engaging. You can let off the brake now.”

“First,” says Kira, and she shifts, “second - what about third?”

“Yeah,” says Stiles, licking his lower lip, “we should talk about third.”

Kira eyes him suspiciously. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Stiles pats the dash. “She grinds in third.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ll see,” Stiles says cryptically.

Kira ends up stalling out again. “What was that?” she demands.

“I told you,” says Stiles, flipping the bird when the car behind them honks, “she grinds in third.”

Kira gets the Jeep up and running again, makes it to the Dairy Queen without incident. She’s trying to decide if she can actually pull into the only available parking spot when Stiles grabs her elbow. “Nah, let’s just drive through.”

“You don’t want to go - oh,” says Kira when she realizes Stiles is rubbing his stump. “No, no, we can go through the drive-thru.”

“Thanks,” Stiles mutters. For a second, Kira feels sorry for him, but then he’s cheerily calling in an order for way too much food.

The attendant’s voice crackles on the intercom. “Will that be all?”

“French fries?” Stiles asks Kira. Before she can ask if he’s even allowed fried food, he’s shouting, “And a large fry!”

“Don’t give me that look,” he says as Kira pulls up to the window.

The guy who takes Stiles’ twenty takes one look at the kitsune and asks if the Orange Julius is for her. “On the house,” he tells her. “I wasn’t expecting a pretty girl behind the wheel of that clunker.”

This seems to annoy Stiles, though it saves him four bucks. “She has a boyfriend,” he grumbles before Kira can say anything, “and this car is _not_ a clunker.”

The guy’s eyes flicker to Stiles’ missing leg. He looks horrified. “Sorry, dude,” he says. “I wasn’t trying to hit on your girlfriend.”

“She’s not my - ”

But the guy is already wrestling with the machine used to mix Blizzards. “Stiles, it’s fine,” Kira says quickly. “Scott would think it was - ”

She’s not actually sure if her boyfriend would think it was funny. A few months ago, probably. She isn’t expecting Stiles to sigh. “I know what you mean,” he says as the still-embarrassed fast food worker passes Kira a drink carrier. He tosses the bag with Stiles’ fries into the Jeep and slams the window shut. “We can park across the street at the playground and eat.”

“Isn’t that, you know, creepy?” Kira asks. She’s nervous as she slips it back into first, but the Jeep rolls forward. She claps in delight, then promptly kills it trying to shift into second. “Sorry.”

Stiles is smirking when she gets the Jeep going again. “My dad and I used to do it all the time.”

“Your dad’s the sheriff,” Kira points out.

Stiles says something that sounds a little like _will you just_ but he’s got so many fries crammed in his mouth it’s hard to tell. Kira parks under a shady tree. Privately, she thinks the Jeep sounds like it’s breathing a sigh of relief when she turns it off. “Thanks,” she says, wiggling her drink at Stiles.

“I didn’t pay for it,” Stiles points out.

“I know, but - ”

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell Scott.”

“Thanks. I think.”

There’s a long pause. “So whatever’s bugging you is Scott-related,” Stiles says at last.

“It’s stupid.”

“No, it’s not. I feel like there’s this chasm between Scott and me, and I don’t know how to cross it.” It’s unintentional, but her gaze flickers to his stump. “Fuck, we left my walker in the driveway, didn’t we?”

Horrified, Kira checks the back seat. “Oh, God, Stiles, I can’t believe  - ”

But he waves her off. “Here, have some fries. I probably shouldn’t have this much sodium.”

She wordlessly takes a couple of fries. They’re crisp and salty, just out of the fryer. “That looks so good,” she tells Stiles as he takes a lip-smacking bite of his Blizzard.

Immediately, Stiles is holding out his spoon. “It’s _ridiculous,”_ he tells her. “Go on, try it.” When she hesitates, he adds, “Kira, I’m not hitting on you, OK? It’s a bite of ice cream.”

She holds her hair back as she leans across the center console. “Thanks,” she says, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. She averts her eyes. “So I guess you heard Scott tell me to stay out of your room.”

Stiles breaks a hunk of brownie into two bites. “He wasn’t exactly subtle.”

“I don’t know why he thinks he has any reason to be jealous,” Kira says without thinking. “It’s not like - ”

Stiles’ hand falls on his stump with a dull thud. “No,” he agrees, “what could you possibly see in me?”

The kitsune pales. “Stiles, that’s not what I -”

“You don’t have to lie to me, Kira. I heard you tell him he didn’t have any reason to be jealous of me. ’Course he doesn’t. He’s a freaking alpha werewolf. I’m - shit, I’m _literally_ Hopalong.”

“Hopalong?” Kira repeats quizzically.

“He was the quintessential cowboy side- ” Stiles breaks off. “Seriously, didn’t your grandpa watch Westerns?”

 _“_ _Harabeoji_ is Korean.”

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, because _Dziadek_ \- you know what? Never mind. _Point is,”_ he says, impatient, “Scott barely needed a sidekick before. He doesn’t - he definitely doesn’t now.”

“Stiles - ” Kira sighs, takes one last slurp of her shake. “It’s not like he needs me, either.”

Stiles is pushing M&M’s around in his cup, leaving rainbow streaks in the melting ice cream. “His jealousy says otherwise,” he mumbles. “I think I’m done.”

Kira gathers their trash and takes it to a nearby bin. When she gets back to the Jeep, Stiles is resting his head against the window, watching some middle school kids play a pick-up game of lacrosse. She’s not sure if she should put her hand on his shoulder. “Are you OK?”

“What?” Stiles averts his eyes. “Uh, I’ll take another Percocet when we get home.”

Kira’s about to turn the key in the ignition when she realizes what Stiles is really saying. “You’re in pain?”

Stiles’ cheeks flush. “It’s not so bad,” he says quickly.

“But it hurts.”

“C’mon,” says Stiles, “we should head home so we’re there when my dad gets back.”

They ride back to his house in silence. Kira’s thinking about Scott, who’d dropped her off at Stiles’ hours earlier with a cryptic “I’ll see you later” and no mention of why he was unavailable to watch his best friend that afternoon. She’s about to pull into the Stilinskis’ subdivision when she hears the blip of a siren behind her. “Stiles - ”

“Pull over,” he says lazily. “I’ll handle it.”

Except it’s not one of Stiles’ dad’s deputies. It’s Stiles’ dad.

“Kira,” the sheriff says when she rolls down the window. “Son.”

Stiles swears under his breath, raking his newly-long hair with a hand. “Hey, Pops,” he says in the worst attempt to sound casual Kira’s ever heard. “How’s your day going?”

The sheriff ignores his son. “Did he put you up to this?” he asks Kira.

“N-no,” Kira coughs. She cringes inwardly. OK, _that_ was the worst. “I mentioned wanting a shake, so we went to Dairy Queen.”

“So my son _didn’t_ talk you into taking him to Dairy Queen?”

“Dad - ” Stiles pipes. Before he can get any further, John’s giving him a look so stern it makes Kira shudder. Stiles bites his lip.

“It was my idea,” Kira insists, her voice cracking.

“Uh huh,” says the sheriff. “C’mon, Stiles. I’m gonna take you home, and we’re going to talk about this little joyride. I trust if Kira’s gotten the Jeep this far, she can get it back to the house.” He gives the door a thump with his fist as he starts around the car. “Where’s your walker?”

Kira glances at Stiles. There are teeth marks on his lower lip. “Uh, there’s a chance - we might have left it in the driveway.”

The sheriff stops. “There’s a chance you left it in the driveway,” he repeats flatly. His cheeks puff. “So first you make me think someone’s stolen the Jeep - ” he runs a thumb over his lip “ - and now you tell me you left your walker out for the taking. Great, Stiles. Really responsible. Let me remind you - ”

“Oh, _come on,”_ Stiles complains. “Who’s going to steal my walker, Dad? Mrs. Papadakis already has her own.”

“Yeah? Well, what would you have done if you needed a jump, huh?”

Stiles stares at his dad. “She’s a freaking kitsune,” he says, jerking his chin in Kira’s direction. She blushes.

The sheriff tells her through gritted teeth, “Get him home.”

Kira watches him walk, shoulders hunched, back to the cruiser in the rearview mirror. “Stiles,” she asks, “is there a chance your dad expressly forbid you from taking the Jeep out with your friends?”

Stiles twiddles his thumbs. “So, uh, you’re going to want - ”

“Stiles.”

“Maybe?” He sighs. “I’m sorry. Dad’s not - don’t worry, he’s not mad at you. I’m the disappointment.”

“Stiles - ”

“Just put it in - you know what to do,” he mutters, and Kira thinks she sees him hastily wipe away a tear. The sheriff tails them back to the house, where the wind has knocked Stiles’ walker on its side in the driveway.

She’s not sure what to expect - probably for Stiles to just take whatever punishment the sheriff is about to hand down - so she’s surprised when his response to his dad handing him the walker is, “You know what? _Fuck you.”_

The sheriff, clearly stunned, replies, “Stiles, let’s not - ”

“What happened to, ‘We’re going to talk about this little joyride,’ huh?” Stiles interrupts loudly. “I thought you - ”

“Stiles, _please.”_

But Kira gets the sense Stiles is just getting started. “No, Dad, let’s talk about it. Let’s talk about it _right now._ Because I’m sick of this shit. I’m sick of sitting at home all day. My friends - you know, the people you have babysitting me because _you_ can’t be bothered - are sick of sitting at home all day. I’m not going to apologize for going out for fucking _ice cream.”_

The sheriff is just hovering there, holding open the Jeep door. His voice hardly above a whisper, he says, “Stiles, you know full well this isn’t about ice cream.”

“No?” Stiles challenges. “What do you think this is about, Dad?”

“I’m _trying_ \- ” John rubs his chin “ - to keep you safe.”

“Safe, right.” Stiles snorts. “Heaven forbid I actually enjoy my sad, sorry life. I think you’re a little late for _safe.”_

Kira reaches for the door handle. “I’m just going to go inside,” she tells the Stilinskis, who seem to have forgotten she’s sitting right there.

But she doesn’t get very far before the sheriff’s firing off, “It’d be a hell of a lot easier, Stiles, if you didn’t have a death wish. First it’s - it’s - ” the _werewolves_ is inaudible from ten feet away “ - then it’s - ”

 _“I lost my leg in a freaking bus crash!”_ Stiles shouts. “Bet you didn’t see that coming, did you?”

Now Kira’s desperately trying the front door - locked, of course - while the Stilinskis’ neighbors pop their heads out to see what all the fuss is about. The sheriff is still trying to coax Stiles out of the Jeep. “Stiles, none of us - ”

“You should have let me die!” Stiles booms. “If you’re not going to let me _live,_ you should have let me die.”

This time, the swipe of his hand at his eyes is unmistakable. Kira ducks her head. She’s sorry to be witnessing it. She’s sorry Mrs. Papadakis in her floral nightgown is witnessing it.

“C’mon, kid, let’s get inside,” John says. Stiles just nods, lets his dad help him out of the Jeep. They go in through the garage. Kira takes a seat on the front step and texts Scott.

**KIRA: I really need you to come get me.**

**SCOTT: Cant sorry**

That’s it. No explanation, no follow-up to ask what happened. So Kira calls her dad. By the time Ken rolls up 20 minutes later, she’s crying. _“Ttal,”_ Ken says, voice soft as she curls up in a ball in the passenger seat, “what’s wrong?”

 _“Everything,”_ she sniffles.

*           *           *

“Now how are you related to Meredith?” the orderly calls over her shoulder as she leads Parrish into the bowels of Eichen House on Saturday afternoon. “You said - ”

“Cousins,” Parrish lies, sweat prickling at the collar of his sport coat. “Our mothers were sisters.”  It’s really too hot for a jacket, but old habits die hard. His grandmother had made him and Jenny dress in their Sunday best whenever they visited their mother in Mitchellville.

“But you only learned about Meredith a few months ago,” the orderly says skeptically.

Parrish needs to sell it. “I lost track of most of my relatives when I went into the system when I was 10,” he tells her.

She holds open the door to the visitor’s lounge. “An attendant will bring Meredith down shortly,” she says with a curt nod, and she disappears.

Eichen House _reminds_ Parrish of a prison. The orderly had taken him up and down so many flights of stairs he’s not sure what floor he’s on. First, maybe, but he walks over to the glass block windows to check.

Nope, second.

“Deputy.”

The banshee’s too-big clothes sag off her thin frame. “Meredith,” says Parrish, gesturing to the couch. “You should sit.” Then he frowns. “How’d you know - ”

“I know things,” Meredith says proudly, tapping her temple with her index finger. She takes a seat. He does, too. Her hand darts out. “He died.”

Startled, Parrish asks, “Who died?”

“You wore this - ” Meredith’s grip tightens on his wrist “ - to a funeral.”

Parrish blinks. “Yeah,” he says, licking his lips. He’d almost forgotten he had this jacket, bought hastily on the eve of Jim’s graveside service and worn once. It hung in his closet in Iowa while he went to war half a world away, got crammed in a moving box and dragged back out that morning. It’s a little snug in the shoulders. “Listen, Meredith - ”

“You’re not really my cousin,” she murmurs, her knuckles scraping along his jawbone.

He does his best not to flinch. “I need answers.”

Meredith giggles. “You like her.”

“Who?” Parrish wants to know. He suddenly has a bad feeling about this. Lydia had warned him not to go looking for answers at Eichen House. “Who do I like, Meredith?”

Her entire demeanor changes. “Don’t go looking,” she warns. “Don’t go - ”

She rises to her feet. So does Parrish. “Don’t go looking? What shouldn’t I look for, Meredith?” He follows her to the window.

“Does Lydia know you’re here?”

There’s a pause before he admits, “No.”

Meredith wags an accusatory finger at Parrish. “Bad,” she tells him, “bad, bad, bad - ”

“What happened to you?” Parrish wants to know. _More importantly, will it happen to Lydia?_

Meredith saunters back to the couch. She clasps her hands in front of her. “He promised to take care of me,” she says, lip quivering.

“Who, Meredith? Who promised - ”

“He promised to take care of me,” the banshee says again. “He promised - ”

“Meredith, I can help you,” Parrish says desperately. “If someone hurt you, I can - ”

Meredith is rocking back and forth. “I was supposed to take care of them,” she says, voice rising. “I was - ”

The door opens. “What did you do?” the orderly demands. “What did you say to upset her?”

“Nothing,” Parrish insists, powerless to stop Meredith’s quivering and crying. “Nothing.”

“Say goodbye, Meredith,” the nurse commands, wrestling with the squirming girl. “I said, _say goodbye_.”

“Take care of Lydia,” Meredith tells Parrish, eyes wild. _“Take care.”_

*           *           *

Stiles isn’t expecting visitors, least of all Lydia, who doesn’t bother to knock. She just marches into the living room where he’s watching TV, armed with two Macy’s bags. “Are you alone?” she demands.

“Uh, yeah,” says Stiles, at once stretching his shorts over his stump and fumbling for the remote. Once the TV’s not blaring and he’s sitting a little straighter, he tells her, “Scott has cross country clinics all week. Dad wanted to call Derek, but I convinced him I could survive on my own for a few hours.”

Lydia has this appraising sort of look on her face, and for a half-second, Stiles is sure he’s about to be chastised. Instead, she says, “Good. I have a few things I want you to try on.”

“Try on?” Stiles repeats, eyes flickering to the bags. It’s a good thing the wolves _aren’t_ there because his heart rate just spiked. “Like, clothes?”

Now Lydia’s flouncing toward his room. “I picked them up when I was at the mall with Malia,” she calls over her shoulder.

Stiles pulls up on his walker, no choice but to follow her. “Uh, any _particular_ reason?” he asks, his muscles protesting as he shuffles across the kitchen.

Lydia’s already hanging pants and shirts and sweaters in his closet. “Because,” she says gently, “your clothes are going to fit differently now, Stiles.”

She doesn’t glance at his new prosthesis, propped up against the nightstand, but Stiles does. He licks his lips. “So you heard,” he says.

“Derek mentioned it to Malia,” Lydia says, a pair of khakis draped over her arm. Her hand is light on Stiles’ elbow. “Come on, I want to see - ”

“No.”

Lydia withdraws her hand. “Why not?” she demands, folding her arms over the pants.

His resolve falters under her stare. “Because,” he mutters, “I’m not even going to be - it’s going to be weeks, maybe months before I can wear it to school.”

“And what, you’re just going to wear gym shorts until then?” she asks, and suddenly Lydia’s close enough to brush a hand down his polyester-clad right thigh.

Stiles swallows hard. “W-why not?”

She’s close, like boner-popping close, but Stiles isn’t worried about having a reaction. He’s on too many painkillers, couldn’t get it up if he wanted to. “Stiles Stilinski, you have 30 seconds to drop your shorts and put those khakis on, because if you’re not dressed when I turn around, I’ll zip you myself.”

Lydia pushes the pants into his hands and turns around. “Uh, Lydia?”

“You have 27 seconds, Stiles.”

He snorts. “It’s gonna take me a lot longer than that to don my leg, Lydia. That’s what you want, right? To see if these will fit over my prosthesis?”

She’s all business when she spins back around. “How can I help?”

He hands her the khakis, rubbing his mouth. He wonders if he can even do this, remember all the steps on his own. “Uh, I need to sit down,” he says, gesturing toward the bed. Lydia folds up the empty shopping bags to make a seat. He sits. “And probably a few socks.”

Stiles is about to clarify he means the kind he wears on his stump, but Lydia’s a step ahead. “These, right?” she asks, plucking the still-wrapped package from the medical supplier from his open dresser drawer. He nods, watches her eyes sweep over his hastily-folded superhero boxers.

“Yeah,” says Stiles, licking his lips again. “My stump’s still shrinking, so - ”

“Residual limb, Stiles,” Lydia corrects, smoothing her skirt as she takes a seat next to him on the bed.

Stiles, who’d been tugging on his shrinker, stops. “You can’t just - ” he starts, and he rakes a hand through his hair. “Congratulations, Lydia,” he mutters, “you read about limb loss on the internet.”

“Stiles - ”

“No!” he snaps, recoiling when she tries to touch his leg. He blinks. He’s not going to cry in front of this girl. “I’m not - this isn’t something you can just research online, Lydia. You’re not writing a term paper. You’re not - ”

“Show me,” Lydia commands. “Let me in, Stiles. Show me what it’s like.”

He swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. “OK,” he tells her, nodding. “I can do that.”

Except Stiles isn’t sure if he can. His hands shake as he reaches for his liner. “Show me, Stiles,” Lydia says softly, arm curling around his waist, chin settling on his shoulder.

His hands stop shaking. Her touch is comforting, familiar. He’s about to roll his liner on when she asks, “Can I - ”

“Touch?” Lydia nods. Stiles bites his lip, then lifts his stump a few inches so his shorts fall back. “I guess. If you want to.”

He holds his breath as her fingernails scrape lightly over scar tissue, tracing the path of the jagged incision. Stiles hasn’t let anyone touch him like this since he left the hospital. That includes Bridget and Hank, whose hands he’s smacked away while insisting he can manage on his own. He hears himself say, “They had to - amputate higher. At the hospital. They left more of my leg the first time, but it got infected.”

“I remember.”

“I kept asking Dad why - he would _let_ them cut off my leg,” Stiles admits. “God, I was such a pest. I didn’t even - I didn’t - the paramedics had already cut my leg trying to extract me.”

Lydia buries her face in his neck. “I know,” she murmurs, breath hot against his collar.

“You do?” Stiles asks, heart hammering. Then it hits him. She’s a _banshee_ , of course she knows. “God, Lydia, I’m so sorry.”

“You’re supposed to be putting your prosthesis on,” she reminds him.

“Rolling my liner on now,” he promises. Once it’s on, Stiles gives her a one-armed hug. “Then the sleeve.”

Now Lydia’s watching him intently again. She’s actually slipped off her heels, tucking her feet up under her on the bed. “How many sockets did they try before they built you one that works?”

“Uh,” says Stiles, counting quickly on his fingers, “this one’s five. They’re using this design mostly on veterans who lost their legs to IEDs.” He drags his prosthetic leg over with a little gulp.

“Yeah?”

“It was Derek’s idea,” says Stiles. Then he remembers he’s irritated with the werewolf for broadcasting his PT woes to Malia. Stiles’ cheeks flush. “I’m probably going to need your help to stand up.”

Lydia unfurls her legs. “OK,” she says gamely, though Stiles can practically see her calculating the difference in their height and weight as she slides off the bed.

Somehow the tiny banshee manages to drag him up off the bed and help him get a good grip on his walker. Stiles thinks she’s waiting for him to take a step. “Can you hand me that pump?”

“Pump?” Lydia repeats. She’s so short without her heels. “What pump?”

Stiles points. “On the nightstand. It’s - the socket works by creating a vacuum seal.”

“Oh,” says Lydia. She presses the pump into Stiles’ hand.

Stiles’ fingers close around hers. “Why are you here, Lydia?” he asks.

“I - ”

“You’ve been avoiding me all summer.”

Lydia scoffs. “I haven’t been _avoiding_ you.”

Stiles sighs. “Yes, Lydia, you have.” He grips the walker with one hand while he reaches down to attach the hose to his prosthesis. “Ever since - I’ve barely seen you since the hospital. You’re always in a hurry when you stop by. You’re never alone. I figured - ”

He figured he’d scared her away when he had the panic attack.

“What, Stiles?” Lydia asks quietly. “What - ”

There’s a little _pop_ as Stiles’ prosthesis suctions to his leg. He winces. “Where’d you put those - ”

He tries to take a step forward and almost eats it. It’s only Lydia’s wrangling that keeps him from falling. “You want to know why I haven’t come over?” she hisses, helping him ease onto the bed.

“Yeah.”

“Because my only superpower is predicting death!” Lydia snaps. “I can’t lift you. I can’t catch you. I’m not a _werewolf_ , Stiles, I’m - ”

“Lydia.”

“ - useless,” she finishes, wedging herself in the space between his knees, arm draped around his neck. He wraps his arms loosely around her waist as she continues, “I can’t help you - only hurt you.”

Stiles thinks she’s going to kiss him. Instead, she starts to cry. “Hey, c’mon,” he urges, pulling her closer. “You’re not hurting me, Lydia. You could never hurt me.”

It’s a lie, and they both know it. He smooths her hair. It smells nice, floral, but different. Stiles thinks she might have changed her shampoo. “Shopping,” Lydia sniffs.

“Come again?” says Stiles, suddenly very aware of how close they are. He loosens his grip on her.

“I can’t take your pain,” Lydia says, a faint smile on her pale lips, “but I can shop.”

Stiles nods once, twice. “Give me those pants,” he says.

*           *           *

Lydia hears the sheriff pull in but Stiles doesn’t, the painkillers he’d needed to take the edge off numbing his senses and dulling his reactions. Personally, Lydia thinks he puts on a pretty good show, bets Scott hasn’t noticed how the pills slow Stiles’ speech and make him more cautious than he’ll ever be sober.

Now the sheriff is in the hallway, and Stiles is still staring a little too intently at his flickering laptop screen. Lydia knows it would be kind to extract herself from Stiles’ embrace before his dad enters and asks a million questions, but she doesn’t vacate his bed. In fact, she burrows in a little closer. It would have been so easy to lean in and kiss him earlier, to tilt her head up and brush his lips with hers. Lydia knows from experience Stiles isn’t a terrible kisser, and a little affection right now might even boost his self-esteem.

But those feelings just aren’t there.

“Hey, Stiles, I was thinking we could get - Lydia,” John says, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall.

“Dad,” says Stiles, and he tries to sit up but can’t because her head is still on his chest. “Hey.”

Lydia is sure to tug down her dress as she rolls away from him. “Hello, Sheriff,” she chimes.

“I was thinking Stiles and I would go check out that new chicken place downtown,” John says evenly. “Will you be joining us?”

She feigns a yawn. “I promised Mom I’d eat with her,” she lies, and kisses Stiles’ cheek. “I’ll see you at school.”

Stiles goes red. “Yeah,” he mutters as she slips on her shoes, “see you at school. Thanks, uh, for the pants.”

Lydia picks up the sack with the one pair that didn’t work. She gives the sheriff a little wave as she passes, maybe hovers in the hall for a minute so she can hear John ask, “Is there - anything going on between you and Lydia?”

“Of course not,” Stiles replies. He groans. “Don’t be ridiculous, Dad.”

Lydia feels a little stab of guilt for leaving him in this condition and hurries out the door.

She drives to the cemetery.

“You said you had a body for me?” Lydia calls when she finds the caretaker filling in a grave with the backhoe.

He transfers one last load of dirt before hopping down. He grabs his cane, propped against a nearby headstone. It’s a bad day, then. He beckons Lydia to follow him.

There’s a wooden casket in a grave waiting to be filled. “You want me to climb down?” Lydia asks. “You couldn’t have - ”

“You sure took your sweet time getting here,” the caretaker interrupts. “Come on, I’ll even give you a hand,” he offers, smiling with every one of his crooked, rotting teeth.

Lydia shudders as she takes his gnarled hand. It’s not that she’s scared of him - she’s not, not exactly - but what he’s teaching her, everything she still has to learn, leaves Lydia deeply unsettled.

As does crouching over a dead woman’s casket. “Cancer,” Lydia says at once. “I thought you said - ”

“Try again,” the caretaker urges.

The sun is starting to set, sky painted pink and orange. Lydia runs her hand over the smooth wood. The last thing she wants is to still be in this hole when night falls.

The dead woman’s life comes to Lydia in flashes. She was young, the banshee realizes with a start, not even as old as Lydia’s parents. She was married - no kids - and happy, deliriously happy.

At least until she got sick. “It was a mercy killing,” Lydia whispers. “He gave her morphine to end her suffering.”

The caretaker throws down a rope.

It’s not until he’s putting a kettle on back at the office that Lydia works up the courage to ask, “I know how I knew. How’d you know?”

“Heard him admit as much to his brother,” the caretaker says. “You’d be amazed what people will say at cemeteries when they don’t think anyone is listening.”

“Should you have been?” Lydia counters.

He chuckles. It’s a harsh sound, unpleasant to Lydia’s ears. “It certainly makes teaching you easier. You staying?”

Lydia eyes the messy stack of books and notes piled behind the caretaker’s desk, years of meticulous research on banshee lore. “Yes,” she says finally, and he pours her a cup of tea.

“Ever hear of an undine?” he asks.

Lydia nods. “The water elemental.”

“Did you read about them in your bestiary?”

Lydia shakes her head. “No,” she says. “I’ve just heard the myth. What’s it have to do with banshees?”

“It depends,” he says, a bit maddeningly. “Some say the woman in the water and the woman who wails are one and the same.”

“Isn’t that just the old stories getting crossed?” Lydia wants to know. “People see a banshee combing her hair and mistake her for a mermaid?”

Again the caretaker chuckles. “What do you know about undines, clever girl?”

“They’re beautiful, but deadly to sailors.” Lydia shrugs. “That’s it.”

“Undines are soulless,” he tells her. “They need to ensnare a man, so they can share his. Of course, if he’s unfaithful, it’s fatal.”

“OK,” says Lydia, and she really wishes he’d just hand her a book. These talks always leave her on edge.

He seems to sense her discomfort, and he pulls back. “Would you rather pick up where you left off last time, or do you want to read about women of the water?”

Lydia’s not sure what possesses her to demand the book about undines, but she practically snatches it from his hands. “Thanks.”

The caretaker grunts, sliding his reading glasses down his nose. He picks up the day’s paper - according to the headline, the Calaveras were due back in federal court that morning - and busies himself with his tea.

Twenty pages into what reads like a bad harlequin romance novel, Lydia loses her patience with the cryptic caretaker. “What do you think?” she asks, folding one of her legs beneath her in the chair. “Are banshees and undines the same?”

“Worried your boyfriend’s cheating?”

“No,” says Lydia crossly, “I don’t have a boyfriend.” She thinks briefly of Stiles, reluctantly pulling his new leg on for her, but almost immediately her thoughts drift to Parrish, whom she hasn’t seen since the night of the standoff, the night he told her how Meredith’s family died.

The caretaker arches an eyebrow. “No boyfriend? Surely a pretty girl like you - ”

Lydia doesn’t miss a beat. “It’s a facade,” she interrupts. “I’m actually a hag.”

“I bet it doesn’t help you spend most of your nights here, nose buried in a book.”

“No, probably not,” Lydia agrees. She’s spent all summer looking for answers, but she isn’t any closer to discovering the true cost of saving Stiles than she had been back in May. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

“And what question was that?”

“Are banshees undines?” Lydia asks again, trying to keep her creeping impatience out of her voice. It won’t get her anywhere with the caretaker, she’s learned.

“What makes you think I have an opinion?”

Lydia sweeps her arm over his desk. “Oh, I don’t know. You’re only something of an expert.”

Flattery gets Lydia everywhere. Sure enough, the caretaker leans forward in his seat. But then he licks his lips. “What makes you think I’ve even scratched the surface?”

“I just thought - ”

“You thought wrong, girl!” the caretaker booms, his voice shaking his cup and saucer.

“Why?” Lydia asks. “Why compile all this, why - ”

“I loved a banshee, once.”

“Once,” Lydia repeats.

The caretaker nods. “I was a little older than you. She was a little younger. That wasn’t such a big deal in those days, you see.”

And he winks. Lydia pushes all thoughts of Parrish from her mind. “What happened to her?” she asks, trying to sound casual.

“She died,” the caretaker replies. “Screaming, of course.”

“That - that must have been hard,” Lydia manages.

The caretaker shrugs. “Not really. She didn’t try to fight me.”

It’s Lydia’s cue to get the hell out of the dank shack. But instead of fleeing, she says, “You killed her.”

“Had to.”

“Why?”

“What she saw - ” he shakes her head “ - it drove her crazy.”

Lydia thinks of Meredith, unable to string together a coherent sentence. “It makes sense,” she says. “All that pain, all that suffering. Is that why you’re teaching me?” Another nod. “So I won’t go crazy?”

“I never said that,” the caretaker replies.

*           *           *

Mr. Tate makes French toast with strawberry jam to celebrate when Ms. Graham calls to say Malia passed all of her summer classes. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart,” he tells her, kissing her temple as leans over to sprinkle powdered sugar on her plate.

“Thanks, Dad,” says Malia, uncomfortable. She’s not sure how to tell him this special breakfast, once her very favorite, turns her stomach. It’s what they’d eaten the morning of the crash.

“Eat, eat,” Mr. Tate urges, dropping into the chair across from his daughter. He wags his fork at her. “We’ll have to go shopping this weekend, get you some new clothes for - ”

“I went last week with Lydia.”

“Oh.” Mr. Tate clears his throat. “Right. Sometimes I forget - no, you’re in high school now. You should go shopping with your friends. What do I know about teenage girl fashion?”

Malia forces a smile. She lifts her fork, syrup dribbling onto her plate. She doesn’t take the bite. “Dad?” His eyes flicker up from the back of the jam jar. “Can I ask you something?”

“What’s wrong, honey? Because if you don’t want to go back to Beacon Hills High - ”

“It’s not about school,” Malia says quickly. She licks her lips. “I was just wondering - back when you and Mom told me I was adopted, you told me there was - you said my birth mom wrote me a letter.”

Mr. Tate freezes. “Malia - ”

“Did you keep it? Did you keep the letter?”

He grabs a napkin from the holder and blots at his mouth. “It’s in the safety deposit box,” he tells her. He looks sad, Malia thinks.

“Can I have it?” she prods.

Mr. Tate’s knife scrapes the plate, piercing Malia’s sensitive ears. “Your mother and I planned to give it to you when you turned 18.”

Malia tries, “Can I have it when I turn 18?”

Another scrape. “That’s not until November.”

“I know.”

Finally, Mr. Tate nods. “When you turn 18.”

Malia takes a bite of her French toast. It’s soggy, too sweet. “Eighteen,” she says thoughtfully.

“Eighteen,” Mr. Tate echoes, heart beating fast.

*           *           *

His dad takes one look at the buses lining the drive at Beacon Hills High School and tells Stiles he doesn’t have to go back today, not if he doesn’t want to.

“Tomorrow,” John says, his grasp tight on the steering wheel. “Or next week.”

“Dad, relax,” says Stiles, trying to sound casual as a lump rises in his throat. “They’re going to be there then, too.”

John nods as if to steel himself, like he’s the one who will be limping in on one leg. Sometimes Stiles wonders if his dad doesn’t secretly side with Principal Thomas, who’d rather close the book on this sad, sorry affair than see him matriculate with his class. “If you change your mind, you can call - ”

“Dad, it’s fine,” Stiles interrupts, “and don’t worry about picking me up after school, either. Lydia’s going to drive me home.”

“Don’t even think about getting on Scott’s bike.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Relax, Dad,” he says as John gets his walker out of the back seat. He’s able to pull up on it with minimal assistance.

The sheriff hands Stiles his backpack. “Do you want me to walk you in?”

“This isn’t _kindergarten,_ Dad,” Stiles huffs, and he sets off quickly. Well, as quickly as he can. He gets maybe ten feet before he notices the first person pointing at him.

Twenty before someone whispers, “Bus crash.”

 _Focus, Stiles._ A pimple-faced sophomore holds open the door so he can limp through. “Thanks,” Stiles mutters.

“Sorry about what happened, man,” the kid says, disappearing into the crowd. Someone bumps his walker. Stiles’ palms are sweating. He’s worried about losing his grip.

“Stiles!”

Malia charges straight through a gaggle of freshmen girls and grabs his walker, almost knocking him off-balance. It’s patent Malia - well-intentioned, but a little too aggressive. “Can I help?”

She’s already tugging his backpack off, hefting it onto one shoulder, tiptoeing behind Stiles like his own personal werecoyote shadow. “I’m supposed to meet Scott at my locker,” he mumbles. “You don’t - ”

“It’s no trouble,” Malia insists. “Actually, I was hoping I’d see you.”

Stiles remembers how she’d kissed him at the hospital. “You were?” he asks, trying to ignore his aching stump. It’s too early for it to hurt this much.

Malia nods. “I need your help.”

Stiles stops short. “Malia, what do you possibly think I could do to help you? In case you haven’t noticed, I’m - ”

“It’s about my mom.”

“Your mom,” Stiles repeats, “like - ”

“My bio-mom,” Malia says impatiently. “There’s a letter from her I’m supposed to get when I turn 18. If I can get you the letter, do you think you can find her?”

“I - ” Stiles shakes his head. “I don’t know, Malia. It’ll depend on what’s in the letter, if she signed it, if the adoption was - ”

“I’ll get you the letter,” says Malia, dropping his backpack in front of his locker. “Talk soon.”

And she’s gone. Stiles is struggling to remember his combination when Scott materializes next to him, waving two pieces of paper. “We have first, second and sixth hour together,” the alpha says. “Lydia’s going to go with you from second to third, and then Kira can walk you to fourth. I think I can - ”

Stiles’ locker door flies open with a clang. “Scott,” he says firmly, “I’ll be fine.”

Scott doesn’t look like he believes his friend. “What did Malia want?”

Stiles shrugs. “Help finding someone,” he says. He gives Scott a minute, sure the werewolf will ask who, but Scott lets it go. Stiles clears his throat. “So, uh, first period English. What have you heard about Ms. DeGraf?”

“Nothing,” says Scott. “I guess we’ll find out when we get there.”

Except Stiles never makes it to class. He’s limping several paces behind Scott when he sees it -  a huge banner with last year’s lacrosse team photo, stretched across the trophy case. He stops.

Scott doesn’t notice. “C’mon,” he calls over his shoulder, “we’re going to be late.”

But Stiles isn’t paying attention to Scott. He’s staring at the banner, inked with notes to dead teammates. He’s too far away to read the inscriptions, so he moves closer.

“Where are - Stiles, you don’t want to go over there,” Scott says, desperate.

It’s too late. Stiles ignores Scott’s pleas not to go any closer. There’s a wreath of fake flowers propped haphazardly against the glass. The entire display reeks of high school sentimentality.

_Michael, couldn’t have asked for a better chem partner. I’ll miss you, man._

_Josh Richardson_ , _February 6, 1996 - April 12, 2012_

_RIP Kevin_

_Spencer You’ll always be in my heart. Love Your Girlfriend Kelly_

_4/12/12 NEVER FORGET_

_You were the classiest guy I knew, Danny. Life won’t be the same without you._

_Praying for you, Stiles!!!_

“There was an assembly,” Scott says finally.

“Great,” Stiles snorts. “They got the whole school together for Grief Counseling 101.”

Scott crosses his arms. “What else were they supposed to do?” he asks. “Seven people died, Stiles.”

“Really? I must have missed that,” Stiles says dryly, yanking his walker back when Scott tries to grab hold. “Must have been the month I spent in the medically-induced coma.”

It’s odd to see how many people wrote to _him_ , telling him to get well soon.

Next thing Stiles knows, Scott’s steering him forcefully away from the banner. “You really can be an ass,” the alpha grumbles. “Danny was a friend.”

“Don’t you think I - ” Stiles stops short.

Stiles’ memories of the bus crash are spotty at best, but suddenly one detail stands out clear in his mind: _“Hey, Danny, why don’t you just scoot over, sit with Spencer?”_

They’d both died in the wreck.

“He switched seats with me,” Stiles whispers.

Scott is still glaring at him. “Of course he - shit, Stiles, you didn’t know, did you?”

He can’t breathe. He can’t -

_“Stiles.”_

Lydia’s voice is sharp, but it’s not enough to snap him out of his trance. She chides Scott, “He’s having a panic attack, you idiot.”

Stiles feels like he’s being squeezed through a tube. The corners of his vision blur. Someone - Scott, definitely Scott - seizes him by the chest and hauls him into the bathroom. Lydia ignores whoever squawks, “That’s the men’s - ” and kneels next to him on the cool tile.

“Look at me, Stiles,” the banshee says soothingly, sweeping back his sweat-soaked hair. “I need you to breathe.”

He glares at her. Can’t she see that he’s trying? “Pills,” he manages, trying in vain to reach the front pocket of his backpack. Scott wrestles Stiles’ bag from his shoulders. One of them presses the little orange pill bottle into his palm.

Stiles swallows two Percocet dry and tries to ignore the look Scott and Lydia share. “I’m OK,” he slurs, still shaking.

The bathroom door flies open. “What seems to be - ”

Mrs. Graham plucks the pill bottle from Stiles’ hand. “You’re not supposed to have these,” she admonishes. “Painkillers belong in the nurse’s office.”

Lydia’s still holding onto him. “Call his dad,” she tells Scott.

“What?” says Stiles, trying to shake free of her embrace. “No way. I’m not - ”

“I think it would be best if you went home, Mr. Stilinski,” says Principal Thomas from the open doorway. There’s a small crowd of onlookers now, including a very worried Kira.

That’s how Stiles ends up slumped against the passenger window in Derek’s SUV, watching the trees roll by. The werewolf casts a sidelong glance. “Do you want to - ”

“No,” says Stiles, still angry. “Just take me home, will you?” He absently rubs his stump through his rolled-up pant leg. It had taken him fifteen minutes that morning to figure out how to pin it up, and it had been for nothing.

“It’s happening again, isn’t it? The phantom - ”

 _“I said,”_ Stiles interjects, “just take me home.” He moves his hand from his stump to his mouth and closes his eyes. Derek turns up the volume on the local NPR station.

A second later - at least, it _feels_ like a second - they’re parked in the driveway and Derek is gently shaking Stiles’ arm.

Stiles isn’t about to admit the Percocet has him woozy. “I don’t want any help,” he snaps.

Derek reaches right past Stiles’ annoyance and keeps him from face-planting when he hops out of the car.

“Thanks,” Stiles says begrudgingly as he unlocks the front door. Derek hovers behind him. “You don’t have to stay, you know.”

“It's not a - ”

Stiles stops on the front step. “I don’t _want_ you to stay. I - I just want to be alone, OK? Scott’s going to turn up the second school lets out, and I need a few people-free hours.”

Derek shrugs. “OK.”

But he continues to hover. “Seriously, Derek,” Stiles says. He just wants to be left alone with his guilt. “I’m going to pop a fistful of pills and pass out.”

The werewolf frowns. “Didn’t you already take your painkillers?”

“One,” Stiles lies. He fishes the bottle out of his pocket - he’d stashed it while Principal Thomas and Mrs. Graham argued about what to do with him - and shows Derek the label. “See? Two for pain as needed.”

Derek still looks skeptical. Stiles scowls as he snatches the bottle back. _What do werewolves know about pain, anyway?_

“You want me to check on you later?” Derek finally asks.

Stiles shakes his head. “I’ll be fine,” he says, and he pops two more pills before crawling back into bed.

*           *           *

Lydia heads straight for her car after school ends. They’re all supposed to go over to Stiles’ later, around dinnertime, so Scott can talk his best friend into coming back to school the next day. The alpha’s heart is in the right place, but Lydia’s not so sure Stiles is ready. So she blows past Scott and Kira with a little wave, mouthing, “See you later!” before either of them can stop her.

She’s on autopilot as she cuts across town to her house. Except when she parks, she’s in the Stilinskis’ driveway.

“No,” Lydia says, killing the engine. “No, no, no.”

The last time Lydia just _showed up_ somewhere, there was a kid bleeding to death in one of the Calaveras’ traps. She’s supposed to be in control of her gifts. That’s what the caretaker keeps telling her, anyway. Her heels click all the way up the walk.

“Stiles?” she calls, twisting the knob. The door’s unlocked. Lydia cracks it. “Stiles?”

No answer.

Lydia makes a beeline for his room, stops short. Stiles is splayed on the bathroom floor, blood gushing down his face and chin. The banshee drops to her knees, grabs his wrist. His pulse is faint. He’s barely breathing. “Stiles,” she chokes, nudging him roughly. “Please wake up.” Her hands shake as she dials 9-1-1.

“911, where is your emergency?”

“It’s - ” Lydia has to think about it “ - 129 Woodbine Lane.”

“That’s in Beacon Hills?”

“Yes,” says Lydia, shaking Stiles again. “Sheriff Stilinski’s house.”

“Sheriff Stilinski’s - ” the dispatcher clears her throat. “What’s your emergency?”

“My friend - my friend is unconscious,” Lydia says, finally locating the source of all the blood. There’s a gash above Stiles’ right eye. “I think he hit his head. There’s a lot of blood.”

“Head injuries can bleed a lot,” the dispatcher tells Lydia. “Can you - ”

But Lydia isn’t listening. Stiles’ chest isn’t rising and falling anymore. “He’s not breathing,” she whispers.

“I didn’t catch that, miss. You’ll have to speak up.”

“He’s not breathing,” Lydia repeats. “He was breathing. He’s not - now he’s not.”

“I can walk you through - ”

Lydia drops the phone. Her heart is racing. She can hear Finstock blowing his whistle, yelling the directions during their health class sophomore year. She pushes Stiles onto his back and tilts his head. “OK, OK,” she mutters, turning her head and praying she’ll hear him take a breath. When he doesn’t, Lydia swallows hard, takes a breath, exhales into Stiles’ mouth. She waits, does it again.

She’s about to start chest compressions when Stiles takes a rasping breath. Lydia collapses onto her haunches. “You _asshole_ ,” she swears, tears streaking her face. She reaches for a towel, wipes her bloody hands off first, then his face.

That’s when she notices Stiles’ hand, still curled around the pill bottle.

*           *           *

John rubs his temple as Principal Thomas explains Stiles’ three-day suspension for violating the school’s no tolerance drug policy. “Seriously?” he asks, mouthing _one minute_ to Parrish on the other side of the door. “Over a couple of Percocet?”

The principal’s voice is tinny through the phone. “Those are the rules,” he says, “but I have to say, as a law enforcement officer, you should know what a problem prescription drug abuse - ”

John hangs up the call, motioning Parrish on in.

“Is now still a good time, sir?” Parrish asks. “I can come - ”

The sheriff gives his temple one last pinch. “Sit down, Parrish,” he says wearily. He’d gotten a call from the guidance counselor at nine, one from the school nurse at ten and a single text from Stiles around noon telling his dad to leave him the hell alone so he could sleep.

“We're supposed to do my performance review, sir.”

John reaches behind him and yanks open a drawer. He plucks a file folder from it and tosses it across the desk. “It just needs your signature.”

Parrish doesn't open it. “Sir, it was my understanding we were to complete - ”

“You're the best damn deputy I've ever hired, Parrish. That’s why I’m not taking 30 minutes to sing your praises. What you need is some practical advice for my departure.”

“You’re leaving?”

“That’s customary when you lose an election.”

“But sir - ”

“Parrish,” he interrupts, “as much as I'm sure I'll appreciate whatever flattery is about to come out of your mouth, it’s not going to help you find a new job.”

The deputy blinks. “I don't want a new job.”

“You will when Brown gets elected.”

“How do you - ”

“How do I know Brown’s going to get elected, or how do I know you’ll want a new job?”

Parrish averts his eyes. _Good,_ John thinks. Better than if the deputy were in denial. “How you know I’ll want a new job,” Parrish mutters.

“Listen, Parrish, I know I’m not very popular out there,” John says, swallowing hard as he peers through the half-open blinds. He had been, once. He’d been the obvious choice to take over for Sheriff Cobb. But that’s before a half-dozen deputies had died on his watch. “But I’d like to think the old-timers aren’t exactly eager to see Brown back in this station.”

Parrish is picking at a hangnail. “If by old-timers you mean - ”

“Anyone who survived the kanima, the daruch and the oni,” John interrupts. “If half of the stories are true, is Brown a man you want to work for?”

“No, sir.”

“Maybe you’ll get lucky,” John says before he can stop himself, “maybe he won’t survive his first full moon.”

Parrish jerks his head up. “It’s not like you to be malicious, sir.”

John sighs. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “Stiles got suspended for taking his painkillers to school. How was I - I didn’t - he was supposed to give them to the nurse.”

Parrish rises. “I’ll come back.”

“Sit down, Parrish.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

John runs his thumb over his lips. “Haven’t decided,” he says. “He’d probably try to have me committed if I told him werewolves are real.”

Parrish flinches at the word _committed._ “I don’t know, sir,” he says finally. “Scott and Derek were pretty convincing.”

After the oni tore through the station, John felt he had to tell the young deputy the truth. Parrish had pulled his gun on the shifted werewolves, but he’d heard John out. “I trusted you,” he says. “I don’t trust Brown.” He takes a deep breath. “It was Stiles’ idea, you know. He’s the one who thought I should bring you in.”

“I won't lie to you, sir. I considered quitting right then and there. But in time, I came to appreciate you trusted me enough to tell me. And for what it's worth - ” Parrish ducks his head “ - I’m sorry I called Agent McCall in and violated your trust.”

John wants to tell Parrish _all’s well that ends well,_ but he doubts he’s seen the last of Melissa’s meddlesome ex-husband. “It’s fine,” he says gruffly.

“You could still win the election, you know.”

John ignores this. “I’ll write you a letter of recommendation,” he offers, “but you should start looking before Brown has a chance to drag my name through the mud.”

“What if I decide to stay?” Parrish challenges.

“Don’t stay. Move back to Indiana or Illinois or - ”

“Iowa.”

“ - Iowa, where I’d like to think werewolves have more sense than to attract the attention of a deranged family of hunters.”

There’s a momentary silence before Parrish says, “I felt drawn here, sir.”

“You’ve said so before.”

“How do I say this,” Parrish mutters, knee bouncing on the other side of the desk. “I could have had my pick of jobs back home. I had an in with the Iowa Highway Patrol.”

Eighteen months earlier, Parrish had sat in that very chair, arm still in a sling from a gunshot wound sustained in Afghanistan, and told the sheriff he was willing to overlook the high mortality rate if John would just take a chance on him. “You told me no one wanted to hire you because of your shoulder,” the sheriff says evenly.

“That was - only partially true.” Parrish clears his throat, sits up a little straighter. “I wondered what the hell I was doing here until you let me in on the secret.”

John arches an eyebrow. “And then?”

“I think I’m supposed to be here, sir.”

There’s a brief, silent standoff before John waves his hand. “Get out of here, Parrish.”

“Out of your office, sir, or - ”

“Get out of Beacon Hills, Parrish.” John hesitates, then admits, “We’ll probably do the same. My sister still lives in Ohio. I just - I’ve got to figure out how to tell Stiles.”

“You’re leaving.”

John needlessly moves a stack of papers from one side of his desk to the other. “Can’t think of a reason to stay.”

“I don’t know,” Parrish spits, and _huh,_ that’s interesting. John hadn’t expected anger. “Maybe because this town needs you?”

John crosses his arms. “Parrish, believe me, I’ve thought long and hard about what this town needs. But I’ve also got to think about what I need, what Stiles needs. He’s lost his mom and his leg and - ”

The scanner crackles to life. “Possible 10-56A, medical call, 129 Woodbine Lane,” the dispatcher says. John freezes. “Caller reports 18-year-old male fell in the bathroom after taking pills. Who is responding?”

_No. Not Stiles._

“Sir,” Parrish says tentatively, “isn't that your address?”

“No!” John shouts. He can feel his face heating up. “I mean, it’s my house, but it’s not - Stiles wouldn’t - ”

And he breaks off, remembering the ugly words his son had shouted at him on their driveway for all the neighbors to hear.

*           *           *

Melissa is taping the IV to Stiles’ hand when the teen begins to stir. Groggily, he says, “What - ”

“You’re in the hospital, Stiles,” she says briskly, starting the acetylcysteine drip that will keep the painkillers he swallowed from damaging his liver. “C’mon, sit up. I’m going to need you to take a dose of activated charcoal.” She pauses, gives Stiles a few seconds to explain what the hell he was thinking. But he just groans as his fingers find the butterfly bandages at his temple. “Sit up, Stiles.”

He does. “D’you - will it scar?”

Melissa busies herself with his IV so he won’t see her eyes fill with tears. “Probably.”

Stiles groans again. “OK,” he says. “OK, I probably deserve - ”

“Damn right you do,” Melissa interjects, handing him the pills and a cup of water. “Do you have any idea how badly you scared your dad? Lydia?” _Me,_ she adds silently.

Stiles hangs his head. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, choking down the activated charcoal. He coughs. “I feel dizzy.”

She can’t help herself. “Oh, you’re sorry? That’s it? That’s all you have to say for yourself?”

She’s ready with the bedpan when he starts to gag. “Please, Melissa,” he begs. “You have to believe - ”

“I don’t have to do anything, Stiles,” she snaps. “The doctor will be by shortly to stitch up your cut.”

She’s about to slip out from behind the curtains when Stiles says, “I was trying to call - I realized I fucked up, OK?”

Melissa freezes. Without turning around, she asks, “Stiles, are you - is this your way of saying it was a suicide attempt?”

“Don’t tell Scott.”

Melissa has to leave, has to get away from him, has to find John, has to tell him his dumbass kid will be -

“Melissa! Dammit, will someone grab her a glass of water or something?”

Dr. Alexander’s face swims into focus. He leads her by the elbow to a nearby chair. He pushes her head down between her knees. “Breathe,” he tells her. “That’s good. Again, breathe.”

Melissa lifts her head. “I’m fine,” she manages. “I’m - ”

“No, you’re not,” Alexander cuts in, crossing his arms. “You’re off the case. You’re too close.”

Her cheeks burn. “I can - ”

“No, you can’t,” the doctor replies, and he stalks off.

“Here,” says Matt, the only nurse not hastily averting his eyes. He presses the cup of water Alexander requested into her hands. “Take a minute, OK? I’ll get Stiles.”

Now she can hear the hot-headed doctor reading the teenager the riot act. Matt slips behind the curtain. A tray of instruments clatters to the floor. A frustrated Alexander begins, “Is anyone in this hospital - ”

Melissa doesn’t stick around for the rest of Alexander’s rant. She just hopes she can avoid the sheriff.

Of course, she runs right into him. He catches her by the shoulders. “Whoa,” John says. “Hey, hey, is everything - ”

“He’ll be fine in a day or two,” Melissa says. “The doctor’s with him.”

“What’s happening?” the sheriff wants to know. “Does he need to have his stomach pumped? Can I take him - ”

Melissa shakes her head. “No, John, you can’t take him home. He tried to kill himself. He still needs a psych consult.”

“No.”

“No?” Melissa repeats. “No? Stiles just told me - ”

 _“No.”_ Now John’s the one shaking his head. “Melissa, I don’t care what he - my son wouldn’t try to kill himself, OK? Not Stiles. Not after - ”

“It was a suicide attempt.”

He lets go of her shoulders. “I’m not saying - Melissa, I can’t do it. I can’t live in a world where my 18-year-old kid tried to kill himself. I just can’t. So it has to have been an accident, OK? It has to be - ”

“It wasn’t an accident, John.”

She’s not expecting him to lose his temper. “Will you stop saying that?” he hisses, red-faced. “Can you just - ”

“What do you want me to say? Sure, John, Stiles is fine. He’s not in constant pain, he’s not self-medicating, he’s not - ”

“You knew. You knew this was a possibility, didn’t you? You knew, and you didn’t - ”

“I tried to tell you! I did, John. I warned you that he wouldn’t necessarily appreciate everything that was done to save him.”

But John’s still glaring at her accusingly. “You didn’t tell me he’d end up hooked on - ”

Behind them, Alexander clears his throat. “Sheriff, I’m going to ask you not to yell at Nurse McCall.”

John rubs his mouth. He looks miserable. “I’m sorry,” he tells her. “I didn’t mean - ”

“Yes, you did,” Melissa says, and she storms off. She keeps it together for ten seconds, twenty, rounds the corner before her shoulders quake. She ducks into the supply closet, and she sobs.

*           *           *

Deputy Arroyo grabs Parrish by the arm and hauls him in so close her breath tickles his ear. “She’s still here,” she hisses, nodding toward the Stilinskis’ front step.

“Who - ” Parrish starts, but then he sees Lydia, hugging her knees to her chest. As soon as Arroyo releases him, he makes a beeline over to Lydia. “Hey,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Can I - ” he nods at the empty spot next to her.

Lydia nods. “OK,” she whispers.

“I dropped the sheriff off at the hospital,” Parrish says. “The paramedic I spoke to thinks Stiles will be all right.”

She shakes her head. “None of this all right.”

Parrish watches as Arroyo backs out and follows the fire engine up the street. It’s just Lydia's Prius and his cruiser left in the driveway. “You can’t stay here, Lydia,” he says heavily. “Think you can drive?” She doesn’t answer. “What if I take you home?”

He rises to his feet, fully expecting her to reject the hand he offers. But to his surprise, she slips her small hand in his. “OK.”

Parrish opens the passenger door for Lydia. She slides in. There’s a spot of blood on her sleeve he doesn’t point out.

“It wasn’t an accident,” Lydia says when the sheriff’s house is a pinprick in his rearview mirror.

Parrish glances across the cab. “OK.”

“He’s going to tell everyone he didn’t mean to take all those pills,” she continues, “but he did. I felt it. Stiles wanted to die.” Lydia closes her eyes.

He swallows the lump rising in his throat. “Well, then it’s lucky you decided to check on him.”

 _“Lucky,”_ Lydia scoffs. Then she admits. “I wasn’t there to check on him.”

“No?”

“Sometimes - ” her voice falters “ - sometimes I’m drawn to places.”

His grip tightens on the steering wheel. “What kinds of places?”

“Anywhere there’s a body.”

_“What’s Lydia do?” Parrish had asked when John let him in on the town’s supernatural secrets._

_“Lydia,” John had said, casting a sidelong glance at Scott, “finds the bodies.”_

“Right,” he says quickly. “Uh, so you felt drawn to the Stilinskis’ today?”

Lydia nods. “But less drawn, more - it was like when he was in the coma. It didn’t matter where I was trying to go, I always ended up at the hospital.”

He’s starting to see how Lydia’s superpower could drive a person crazy. “Stiles is going to be OK, Lydia. He’ll probably have to have his stomach - ”

“OK? You think it’s OK to swallow a fistful of pills? That doesn’t sound very - ”

“Lydia,” he says firmly.

“I think I did something.”

He shakes his head. “Lydia, this isn’t - it’s not your fault, OK?”

Parrish probably deserves the glare he gets. “That’s not what I meant, Deputy.”

“Then what did you mean?”

Lydia leans her head against the glass. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

She hesitates. Then, in a small voice, she tells him, “I think I may have traded someone else’s life for Stiles.”

Parrish blinks. “You can do that?”

“Maybe.”

He makes a split-second decision to pull over. “Lydia, listen to me,” he says, hands still tight on the steering wheel. “Stiles didn’t survive because you made some supernatural trade. He lived because he had every medical intervention, every - ”

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” Lydia interjects coolly. “Why did you stop?”

“Because you can’t blame yourself for what happened, Lydia. Even if you - let’s say you did do something, somehow. Is it even something you can control?” She shakes her head. “OK, so you need to stop beating yourself up about it.”

Lydia purses her lips. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know,” she snaps, “maybe, ‘That was wrong of you, Lydia.’ Or, ‘Was that a confession?’”

“Was it?”

“Take me home,” Lydia orders.

He’s easing back onto the road when it dawns on him. “The death records,” he says.

She frowns. “What about them?”

“You wanted to see if you really had swapped someone else’s life for Stiles,” Parrish says. “But Lydia, no one died.”

“That we know of.”

“Do you want me to call every county in California?” Parrish asks, exasperated. “Because I will, Lydia, if that’s what it - ”

“I knew.”

Parrish decides to just go with her non-sequitur. “What did you know?”

“That Stiles was struggling. That he was in pain. Do you know why the Calaveras finally walked away?”

He shakes his head. “Stilinski didn’t go into detail.”

“Of course he didn’t. Stiles offered himself up to a deranged hunter because he thinks Scott’s life is worth more than his.”

Parrish choke-coughs. “He _what?”_

“You heard me.” She sinks a little lower into the passenger seat.

He rakes a hand through his hair. “Yeah.” He can’t help but think of Seth. The silence stretches between them.

“Please keep talking.”

He arches an eyebrow. “You want _me_ to keep talking?”

Lydia nods. “As long as you’re talking, I’m not thinking about Stiles passed out on the bathroom floor. I’m not thinking about him barely breathing. I’m not - ”

“Lydia, no,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re doing it again. You’re blaming yourself.”

“How would you know?”

“Because I know what it looks like, OK? I know what it’s like to feel - ” Parrish breaks off. “Let’s just say I could write the book on blaming yourself,” he mutters.

“Is this about what happened in Afghanistan?”

His head snaps up. “How did you know?” he demands. “Is it some kind of banshee - ”

“No, I’ve been wondering ever since I saw that picture how you handled making it out when your friends didn’t.”

“Not well.” He rubs his thumb over his lower lip. “How much - what did you see when you picked up that picture?”

There’s a beat before Lydia says, “An explosion.” He nods. “The humvee flipped.”

“Cole and Tyler were up front,” Parrish hears himself say. “They were goners the second we hit the pressure plate. Jake was up top, right above the explosion. It tore off his leg.”

“Where were you?” Lydia asks.

“I was in back. I always manned the radio. It was my job to scramble the frequencies insurgents used to detonate roadside bombs.”

“Oh.”

“It wasn’t - that’s not what I blame myself for,” Parrish says quickly. “There was one guy in the picture who wasn’t in the humvee with us, Seth. We met at boot camp, deployed twice together. He was my best friend.”

“Green,” says Lydia softly.

“What - ”

She points at the traffic signal. “It’s green.” Once he’s through the intersection, she asks, “What happened to him?”

“He was behind us in the convoy, so he watched it happen. We were under fire, but he ignored orders to help me pull Tyler and Cole out. He - well, he took Ty’s death pretty hard. They were, uh, they were, you know - ”

“Together,” Lydia supplies.

Parrish nods. “Yeah.” He bites his lip. “I didn’t take it that well when I found out. Not because - I knew Seth was gay, had for a long time. But he was Tyler’s subordinate. They would have been in so much trouble if anyone else found out. Of course, Seth assumed I disapproved, and when Tyler died, he just sort of pulled away. At some point, he must have decided he wasn’t leaving the desert alive. He started acting reckless, dangerous. I figured he was just grieving. But then we were on patrol one night when an insurgent threw a grenade that killed four men.”

“But not Seth.”

“But not Seth.” Parrish isn’t sure how to tell this story. He’s only told it once, to Jake, who didn’t totally believe him. “When the smoke cleared, there were bodies everywhere, and our sergeant was yelling for everyone to fall back. Seth charged out and got himself captured.”

“What did you do?”

Parrish doesn’t meet her gaze. “He was my best friend,” he mumbles.

“You went after him,” Lydia says.

“Took a bullet to the shoulder and woke up in a cave.”

“Wow.”

“That’s where Seth admitted he wasn’t interested in making it home, though he never intended to drag me down with him.” Parrish clears his throat. “Our captors spent a couple of days trying to beat information out of us before the Army staged a rescue. Needless to say, it went south. I couldn’t walk - my shoulder was infected, and it was spreading - so I told Seth to save himself. He got shot eight times hauling my wounded ass out. His mom sent me to Georgia with a sack of ashes to bury next to Tyler.” Parrish parks in Lydia's driveway.

“That’s awful,” she says finally. “I’m so - ”

_“Lydia!”_

Ms. Martin practically drags her daughter from the cruiser. “Oh, sweetheart, thank God you’re all right,” she says, cupping Lydia’s cheeks. “How’s Stiles?”

The banshee forces a smile. “He’s going to be OK,” she tells her mom. Then, maybe because her mom teaches at the school, Lydia lies, “It was an accident.”

Her mom pulls her into a tight hug. “Thank goodness.” She ducks back into the cruiser to wave to Parrish. “Thanks for bringing her home, Deputy.”

“No trouble at all, ma’am,” he says automatically. “Take care of yourself, Lydia.”

He frowns as Lydia follows her mom into the house. Hadn’t Meredith told him to do the same?

*           *           *

His mom is careful to say Stiles is “under observation” for the next 24 hours when she turns Scott away at the hospital, but the thud of her heart when she says it was an accident lets him know she really means _suicide watch_.

“You’re lying,” he says angrily, fists clenched as he storms down the hall.

He tells himself he’s not going to take it out on Derek, but then the other werewolf hauls open the loft door, sweaty and oblivious, and Scott just plain loses it. He howls angrily, grabs a fistful of Derek’s grimy wifebeater and slams him face-first into the wall.

“I trusted you!” Scott shouts. “I trusted - ”

Derek catches Scott’s swinging fist with one hand. “What happened?” he asks, spitting out a mouthful of blood.

Scott glares at Derek. “This is your fault,” he says. “You left him alone. You should have - ” he feints, then slams his fist into Derek’s gut “ - stayed, you asshole.”

The older werewolf staggers. “Scott - ”

“He’s back in the hospital, and it’s your fault!” Scott rages, jabbing at Derek’s kidneys. “If Lydia hadn’t found him, he could have - he could have - ”

Derek manages to block Scott’s next shot. “Found _who?”_

Scott doesn’t mean to shift, he just _does._ “STILES!” he bellows, taking a swipe at Derek and drawing blood. “He took a fistful of painkillers and if - IF ANYTHING HAPPENS TO HIM, IT’S ON YOU.”

Derek, clutching his bleeding side, freezes. “What?” he whispers.

“You heard me,” Scott says, breathing heavily. “Stiles tried to commit suicide.” Then, louder, he says, “Did you hear me? _Stiles tried to commit suicide.”_ It’s easy to knock Derek’s legs out from under him, and Scott just keeps kicking. “This is your fault. I wanted to turn him. He wouldn’t be so miserable if you’d - FIGHT BACK, dammit, _fight back.”_

Scott’s not sure how long he pummels Derek, fists and feet pounding the other werewolf until he’s a quivering mess. It’s only then that Scott staggers back. He falls to his knees beside the injured beta. “Derek,” he says, “Derek, shit, I’m sorry.”

For a single, horrible second, Scott thinks he’s murdered Derek. But then the older werewolf groans, flopping onto his back. “I think you broke all of my ribs,” he manages as Scott helps him sit up.

Scott doesn’t let Derek push his hands away. “Here,” he says clumsily, “at least let me take your pain.” Thick black ropes spider up Scott’s forearms. He can _see_ Derek’s broken bones snapping back into place.

Several minutes pass before Derek pants, “Is Stiles going to be OK?”

Scott nods. “Yeah,” he says, “yeah, I think so.”

“Good,” Derek says, pushing Scott’s hand away and closing his eyes. They’re bright blue when he opens them again.

It’s instinctual. Scott flashes his own red eyes back. Then he frowns. “Wait. Does that mean - ”

“Yes.”

Scott slings Derek’s arm across his shoulders and hauls him to his feet. “Why didn’t you fight back?” he asks.

In response, Derek growls, “Not the couch. I’m still bleeding.”

“Hold on,” Scott says once he gets Derek settled in a chair, “I’ll grab you a towel.”

He lurches into Derek’s bathroom, careful to avoid the missing board, groping for the pull cord to turn on the single, flickering light bulb.

Except the derelict bathroom is gone, replaced with gleaming tile and a toilet that _doesn’t_ look like it was discarded from the set of “Fight Club.” Derek needs to set the vanity, still wrapped in tape and cardboard, but otherwise, the room looks done. Scott hastily grabs a towel - Derek actually has a _towel rack_ \- and turns off the lights.

“Thanks,” Derek grunts, wiping at the still-gaping wound below his ribcage.

“You got new towels,” Scott says casually.

The fluffy white cotton is now smeared with blood. “Not new anymore.”

“You put grab bars in the shower.”

Derek nods. “I want this to be a place where the entire pack feels welcome.”

“Is that why you didn’t fight back?” Scott wants to know. “So I’d become your alpha?”

The older werewolf rises to his feet with a grimace. “You were already my alpha, Scott,” he calls, padding into the kitchenette and splashing his face with water.

“Then that wasn’t some weird - some weird beta submission thing?”

Derek shrugs. “You needed someone to punch,” he said, “so I let you punch me.”

“Seriously?”

“Laura let me wail on her after the fire.” Derek says. Almost as though it’s an afterthought, he adds, “It helped.”

“That’s different,” Scott insists. “She was an alpha. You’re a beta. I could have killed - ”

“You wouldn’t have,” Derek says.

“You sound pretty certain,” says Scott, skeptical. _A lot more certain than I feel._

Derek rubs the back of his neck. “About Stiles - ”

“I’m sorry,” Scott says again, “for what I said. It’s not - I shouldn’t have said it was your fault.”

“I know.” Derek leans against the counter, arms crossed. “Peter told you, right? About Paige?”

Scott averts his eyes. “Actually, he told Stiles.”

“Same thing.” Derek swallows hard. “I’m just saying, some people don’t survive the bite.”

“And what, you think Stiles is one of those people?”

“I’m not saying that. I’m saying - there’s something about him, OK? I don’t know if it’s that hint of a spark, or - ” the werewolf breaks off. “I think he made the right call, asking you not to bite him.”

Scott’s heart beats faster. “Do you think he knows that?”

Derek shakes his head. “I’m not sure.” And again, “I’m really not sure.”

*           *           *

Stiles sniffs, wiping his runny nose with the back of his hand. He can hear his dad talking to Dr. Alexander in low tones on the other side of the door. The exchange ends in raised voices and the squeak of the surgeon’s shoes on the linoleum. Stiles blinks hastily as the door opens.

At the same time, Stiles and John say, “I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” says John, crossing the room and enveloping Stiles in a too-tight hug, “there’s no need to cry. I’m not - ”

Stiles shakes his head against his dad’s chest. “I’m not crying,” he insists. “My eyes won’t stop watering.”

The words have no sooner left his mouth than Stiles realizes what it means. In lieu of the _don’t do drugs_ speech, the sheriff had plunked Stiles and Scott down in front of a police training video on addiction.

He’s in withdrawal. Of course.

The worst part is, his dad works it out at the same time. He clears his throat as he pulls a chair up. He’s wearing jeans and a pullover, Stiles notices. That means he went home at some point, or else Melissa brought him a change of clothes. “Listen, son - ”

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself.”

John’s fingers drum rhythmically on the arm of the chair. “I know.”

“I mean it, Dad, I wasn’t - ” Stiles stops. “Wait, you do?”

“Like I said, Stiles. I’m the one who owes you an apology. I pushed you too hard to go back to school.”

 _No, you didn’t. You didn’t want me to go back. I wanted to go back._ “Dad, it wasn’t - ”

“You weren’t ready,” John continues. He’s staring at his fingers, at the wedding band he’s still wearing. “You don’t have to be. Let’s get you home again, then we’ll figure out what - ”

This time, it’s Stiles who cuts in. “Home again?” he repeats. “Does that mean - do I have to stay here? I thought I was only under - under - _observation_ for 24 hours.”

His dad sighs, and the drumming stops. “Dr. Alexander’s worried about your liver.”

“Oh,” Stiles manages. He runs his knuckles over the bedsheets. “Uh, did something show up on the tests?”

“It’s probably nothing.”

“It’s apparently enough to keep me here for - ” Stiles breaks off. _Agitation_. His hand moves next to his stump. “Sorry,” he mutters.

His dad’s watching him closely now. “How’s it feel?” he asks. “Uh, your residual limb.”

Stiles stops rubbing it. “Dad,” he says, mouth dry, “you can - I know Bridget says not to call it my stump, but it’s, you’re OK, it’s - ”

John sighs. “Just answer the question, Stiles. Are you in pain?”

That’s what his dad and Alexander had been fighting about in the hall. Stiles shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he lies, sniffing again.

“Stiles - ”

“How many days? When can I go home?”

“Two or three.” John reaches for the tissue box. “Here,” he says, handing it to Stiles. “Wipe your nose.”

He does as he’s told, reluctantly pressing the used tissue into his dad’s outstretched hand. “It’s hot,” he complains.

“Stiles, I’m going to ask you one more time. Are you in pain?”

Before he can stop himself, Stiles snaps, “What do you think, Dad?”

*           *           *

Derek almost blows past the sheriff, sitting in a quiet alcove off the nurse’s station, because he’s expecting John to be with his son. But the werewolf doubles back at the scent of gun oil, fast food and the stress sweat he’s come to associate with Stiles. When John lifts his head, Derek hands over a to-go bag from Pita Pit. “Here,” he says.

It’s relevant, Derek thinks, that John takes it wordlessly. He’s certainly brought the sheriff dinner at this hospital before, dozens of times, maybe hundreds, but there’s usually a token protest. “It looks healthy,” John says, poking at a tzatziki-laden cucumber trying to escape the wrap.

“Well,” Derek says pointedly, lowering himself into a chair across from the sheriff, “you _did_ have a Big Mac for lunch.” John flushes guiltily. “I thought you’d be with Stiles.”

The sheriff freezes mid-bite. “No.”

Derek stares at his hands, plastic bag from the local comic book store dangling from two fingers. He’d been running errands when Melissa texted him to say they’d be keeping Stiles for a few days to monitor his liver output, so he’d picked up the latest “Fables” for the teen. The werewolf asks, “Why not?”

“He’s - ”

But a minute passes without John elaborating what Stiles is. Derek clears his throat, pushing up on his knees. He jerks a thumb in the direction of the patient rooms. “Well, I’ll just - ”

“You can’t,” John interrupts, voice flat. He sets aside his half-eaten pita. “He can’t have visitors.”

Derek hovers above the chair. “Why not?”

“Because he’s in withdrawal,” John snaps.

“Oh,” says Derek, and for some reason he settles back in the chair instead of standing.

John is rubbing his chin. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “You didn’t - there’s no way - you couldn’t - ”

It’s Derek’s turn to sigh. “No,” he tells the sheriff, “I did, and I’m sorry.”

“Come again?”

Derek continues to twists the plastic bag around his fingers. “I knew Stiles was taking a lot of painkillers,” he admits. “He told me a few weeks ago he didn’t want me taking his pain.”

He braces for it: the sharp intake of breath, the berating Derek deserves. But when it doesn’t come, he continues, “He was taking more pills than he had been, but I figured - it didn’t occur to me it might be too much.”

There’s more, much more, Derek could say, but John holds up his hand. “Son, I’m going to stop you right there.” The werewolf lifts his chin. “I’m the one who was so focused on getting him out of here I didn’t stop to think about what kind of life he’d be able to lead.”

Derek’s thinking of Stiles offering himself up to the Calaveras, and he has to wonder if John is, too. Instead, he says, “He’s making progress.”

John scratches his chin. “Is he?” Derek nods. “I don’t see it.” There’s a pause. “Melissa tried to warn me. I think she knew I might not get back the kid I was so desperate to save.” The sheriff chuckles under his breath. “I know how I must sound. Stiles is lucky to be alive, and I’m luckier than the parents who would give their left legs to have their sons home again.”

“How can I help?” Derek wants to know.

“Why do you want to?” John counters.

Now Derek remembers how Stiles used to sit for hours with the bestiary, chewing on his tongue, asking the werewolf a million questions (of which he’d only answer one or two) about the supernatural. He’d seen a glimpse of that kid through the opiate-haze as Stiles pestered him with questions about the Calaveras. “I get that it’s hard to see how things will get better on the worst day of your life.”

“Honestly, Derek, on my list of bad days, yesterday wouldn’t even _rank.”_ The sheriff heaves a sigh. He’s rubbing the same spot on the waiting room table with his thumb, all the same nervous tics Derek recognizes from Stiles. “I’m not sure if you remember, but I was the responding deputy the day - the day - ”

“ - the day my dad died,” Derek finishes. How could he forget? He quickly swallows the lump in his throat. “Yeah, I know.”

“Huh,” says John, and he licks his lips. “I must have played that scene in my head a thousand times. You were so stoic. Your mother, she was - well, she’d just lost the father of her children, of course she was sobbing. But you just stood there with your little fists clenched. I went home that day and hugged Stiles and Claudia a little tighter.”

Nine-year-old Derek had been digging his claws into his palms to stave off the tears. “My dad was human,” he tells the sheriff, anticipating his next question.

John nods. “When I had to arrest you after Scott and Stiles found your sister - ” he says this like an apology “ - I went back to that day in the woods. I thought, ‘Here’s a kid who didn’t cry when a tree fell on his father. Maybe he really could kill his sister.’ Then the truth came out about the fire. I wanted to let this funny feeling I had about you go. But it wasn’t easy, not when you were plainly mixed up in the mess with Lahey, and _my own son_ was lying about his involvement.”

“Sorry,” Derek mutters.

 _“Point is,”_ John continues, “you know things have gotten pretty bad at home when _werewolves_ are preferable to the scenarios you’ve dreamed up. If you’d have told me a year ago I’d breathe a sigh of relief when Derek Hale walked through my door with dinner - ” he shakes his head. “I’m trying to apologize.”

“That was the worst day of my life,” Derek volunteers. “Not the fire, but the day my dad died. Everything changed after that. My mom - she’d always been our alpha, but she’d kiss our already-healed boo-boos and read to us before bed, too. She didn’t do that after the accident. It’s like she forgot how to be warm and affectionate, almost like her humanity died with him.”

John thinks long and hard about what he says next. “Mine wasn’t the day Claudia died or even when Stiles got hurt. It was - the day I realized my wife wasn't there anymore. She’d - let’s just say we were no strangers to the hospital at that point. She was wasting away, and I was in denial. Stiles was acting out at school. That day, he’d knocked another kid off the monkey bars. I had to leave work to pick him up.

“And when I tried to tell Claudia about it, she didn’t care. She still knew she had a son, and - ” the sheriff’s voice cracks “ - she didn’t care. The day the doctors warned me about had come: she was gone, and I was raising our son alone. I couldn’t ask her what to do when Stiles misbehaved. She wasn’t there to remind me to take pictures on the first day of third grade. I had to figure out when to give him the puberty talk and the sex talk and the drugs talk. I’m still scared he’ll - ”

He breaks off. Derek prompts, “What?”

John’s voice is rough. “I used to worry about what I’d say if he panicked on his wedding day and didn’t want to go through with it. But now - do you think he’ll ever meet someone? Surely there’s a girl out there who can see past his missing leg, right?”

Privately, Derek wonders if John was right to picture a bride, but he doesn’t think now’s the time to question Stiles’ sexuality. “I think he’s capable of more than you’re giving him credit for, Sheriff.”

“His mom would know - ”

“You said it yourself,” Derek interjects. “She’s gone. You can’t ask her what to do. And Sheriff, I don’t think that’s what Stiles needs right now. He needs someone he can yell at during PT who will just take it, who can separate his justifiable frustration from how you’re doing as a parent.”

“Why do you want to help, Derek?” John asks again. “Is it a wolf thing? Because I’m not sure if I want Stiles mixed up - ” he breaks off and exhales slowly. “I’ve - I’ve been talking to my sister. She has the room, if I wanted to get Stiles away from Beacon Hills.”

“It’s not your call to make,” Derek tells the sheriff. “You can yell at Stiles until you’re blue in the face, threaten to move him to your sister’s all you like, hell, you could _actually_ take him to Ohio - and it wouldn’t change a thing. He’s still pack.”

“Your dad was pack.” Derek nods, even though he doesn’t think John’s actually asking. “And it’s - that’s normal, to have humans in a pack?”

Derek shrugs. “It is in Beacon Hills.”

“It is in your family,” John corrects. “And the Hales - Scott says you didn’t just live here. He says your family protected Beacon Hills. I have to ask - Sheriff Cobb, was he in on the secret?”

Now the plastic bag is wound so tightly around Derek’s fingers they’re turning white. He’d never liked the gruff former sheriff, but it’s time to come clean to Stiles’ dad. “Then you’ve worked out he didn’t really die in a hunting accident.”

“Not the kind that involves being mistaken for deer, no,” John says. He taps his fingers against the arm of the chair. “Stiles has to say yes, you know.”

“To what?”

“You’re offering to take him to PT, right?” Another nod. “It’s three times a week for the rest of the semester.”

“That’s fine,” Derek says. Though he’d never admit it to, say, Scott, he actually looks forward to going to the Stilinskis’ house each day. It gives him something to do, the sense of purpose he’s lacked since giving up his spark. Which makes sense. It wasn’t like Derek was supposed to be an alpha. No, he was supposed to fall in line behind his more powerful sisters. In fact, caring for an injured pack member is exactly the sort of behavior expected from a beta. It had been his Uncle Frederick, not Talia, who had packed their lunches and sent them off to school.

The sheriff surprises Derek by extending his hand. “Call me John,” he says, and he sighs. “I’m afraid I won’t be Sheriff Stilinski much longer.”

Derek’s afraid of that, too. But it’s not the time. “Here,” he says, handing the sack he’s been fiddling with throughout the exchange to John. “For Stiles.”

“What is it?” John wants to know, plucking a graphic novel from the bag.

“It’s a comic about the Big Bad Wolf,” Derek tells John. “Stiles used to bring them to the loft and demand I ‘fact-check’ anything he thought was a thinly-veiled werewolf reference.”

The sheriff bursts out laughing.

*           *           *

“Five,” Stiles calls from the doorway, “one, seven - ”

John’s hand freezes on the keypad. “What did you just say?”

Stiles shrugs his shoulder at the gun safe. “The combination. It’s Mom’s birthday.”

The sheriff sighs. “Why do you know that?” he asks, weary. He hits the zero, and the safe pops open.

“You’re the one who told me people always pick numbers that are meaningful to them,” says Stiles. He looks better now that he’s out of the hospital, and John could forget it ever happened if not for the row of bandages above his son’s eye.

John squints at the directions to change the combination, pushes the reset button. “So you do listen when I talk,” he says evenly. He begins to punch in a new code.

He’s not expecting Stiles to call, “Nine, four, nine - ”

“Stiles,” the sheriff says warningly.

“What? It’s your anniversary. You really - ”

“Stiles!”

“I’m just saying,” Stiles continues, “if you’re going to change the combination so I can’t get ahold of your guns, you probably should make it something I can’t guess.”

Crap. John hadn’t even considered how many guns he has in the house. He’d been planning to lock up Stiles’ _pills._

Stiles’ shoulders slump. “You were only worried about the painkillers,” he mutters.

John quickly keys in 4-9-6-6 - Stiles’ birthday, backwards - and tosses his son’s Percocet into the safe. He closes it again. “C’mon,” he says, slinging an arm around Stiles’ shoulders, “you’re supposed to be resting.”

Stiles doesn’t budge. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“I’m taking a few days off,” John says. He licks his lips. He’s been trying to think of a way to float his plan by Stiles. Maybe he should just come out with it. “So I’ve been thinking -”

But before John can say one word about Ohio, Stiles interrupts, “Dad, we can’t afford that.”

“Hey,” says John, “I keep telling you, that’s not for you to worry - ”

He’s interrupted by a knock on the door. “Sit,” he tells his son when he notices the dark SUV in the driveway. He hauls open the door.

“Stilinski.”

“What do you want?” John asks Rafe.

The FBI agent shoves his hands in his pockets. “It’s Sheriff Sanders. No one’s seen him in 48 hours, and we just found his patrol car abandoned on the 191.”

“In Beacon County?” Rafe nods. “Crap, I need to call someone to stay with Stiles, hold - ”

“That won’t be necessary, Sheriff.”

“Why not?” John huffs.

Rafe runs the toe of his expensive leather shoes over the Stilinskis’ welcome mat, dislodging a clump of mud. “The mayor’s asking that you sit this one out.”

John crosses his arms. “Is he?”

“Thinks you’ve got enough going on at home.”

The sheriff closes his eyes, fully aware Stiles is eavesdropping from the living room, and he nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter includes a scene where Stiles, overwhelmed by depression and physical pain, takes too many pills in what's immediately labeled as a suicide attempt by other characters.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **It also includes a scene where Parrish tells Lydia about a friend of his who did commit suicide.**
> 
>  
> 
> Please, if you're in the U.S. and need help, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, 1-800-273-8255. Get help. You're worth it. I've been there. I can say with absolute certainty _it gets better._
> 
> Now, for my notes: Thanks for reading! I hope you're enjoying Caretakers and apologize for the wait. I'm hoping to post two (more) updates in October. Visit [my Tumblr](http://em2mb.tumblr.com) for the latest on my progress. As always, I owe my dear betas a great deal of gratitude for whipping this one into shape.
> 
> I would also like to take a minute and say for the record how much I love Scott and respect him as a character. I know he's not always likable in my fic, but I'm really trying to portray Stiles' recovery realistically - and nearly losing his best friend has affected Scott deeply. Scott has a good heart. He's also a 17-year-old boy who doesn't have all the answers. You'll get more Scott/Kira in the chapters to come.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last thing the sheriff needs is for Rafe to start asking questions about Scott’s involvement.
> 
> Sure enough, the FBI agent waits until the others are out of earshot and asks John, “Think it’s curious my son’s girlfriend found the body?”
> 
> “Nope,” the sheriff says, not quietly. “Mostly, worried about the impact all this death has on a bunch of teenagers.”

It’s not that Derek is trying to listen in on Stiles’ conversation with Dr. Alexander. In fact, he’s forcing himself to page through a back issue of Men’s Health. But when the teen’s heart rate spikes, he tosses the magazine aside.

“ - so what do you want a prescription for this time?” Alexander is saying. “Vicodin? Tramadol?”

“I’m not taking anything but the Percocet,” Stiles insists. “Just a refill - ”

“I’ll write it for 90 days,” Alexander snaps. “Wouldn’t want you to run out mid-month. Lift your shirt.”

A nurse pushes a squeaky wheelchair past Derek, so he misses whatever Stiles says next.

“Any pain?” the doctor asks.

“No,” Stiles lies.

Derek can practically hear Alexander roll his eyes. “How’s your urine output? Back to normal?”

“It’s fine,” Stiles mumbles, and Derek feels a little stab of guilt for eavesdropping.

“Not still dark?” Before Stiles can answer, the doctor is telling him, “Put your shirt back on and try not to kill yourself before your next appointment.” And he blows right by Derek on his way out of the exam room.

“He’s 18.”

The doctor stops, but he doesn’t turn around. “So?”

Derek rises to his feet. “So? He’s a kid. He knows he fucked up. Stop punishing him.”

Alexander scoffs, and he starts to walk away. The werewolf grabs him by the elbow. The doctor arches an eyebrow. “You want to take that off me?”

“He’s not a junkie,” Derek says, voice low, relaxing his grip. Alexander brushes his sleeve and stalks off.

“Hey,” says Stiles, emerging from the exam room. His eyes sweep down the hall after the doctor. “He, uh, say anything to you?”

Derek shakes his head. The hand he puts behind Stiles’ back is tentative. “C’mon,” he says, “let’s get you home.”

He’s folding up Stiles’ walker when the teen, pulling his prosthesis into position in the passenger seat, says, “Thanks.”

Derek freezes. “For what?”

Stiles shrugs, red hoodie slipping off his slim shoulder. “You know, for not treating me any differently after - after the - ”

“You’re welcome,” Derek grunts, stashing the walker behind Stiles. In the month since Scott stormed into the loft and tossed the older werewolf around like a rag doll, Derek’s shuttled Stiles from school to the hospital for therapy and appointments three times a week without mentioning the overdose once. That’s why he’s not really sure what he’s doing when he leans back against the SUV, arms crossed. “If you don’t want to head straight home, you’re always welcome at the loft.”

The words are no sooner out of his mouth than Derek remembers: it’s Friday, and on Fridays the pack gets together to watch movies at the Stilinskis’. He supposes this is intended to make the teen feel better about getting shipped off to the alternative school.

Stiles squeaks, “Uh, actually, the pack’s headed over.” He clears his throat. “I mean, you’d be welcome if you - ”

“I don’t want to intrude,” Derek interrupts, quickly slamming the passenger door and hurrying around the cab.

It’s not until he’s tugging on his seatbelt that Stiles declares, “It wouldn’t be intruding.”

“What wouldn’t?”

“If you wanted to come over,” says Stiles, “it wouldn’t be intruding. In fact - ”

He’s staring at Derek, lips slightly parted, brown eyes wide open. He looks like it’s costing him something to extend this invitation, though Derek isn’t sure what. The werewolf shakes his head. “Maybe some other night.”

Stiles nods. “Some other night,” he echoes, rubbing a thumb across his lips.

*           *           *

Scott thunders up the stairs at his dad’s new place with a box in each arm. “Where do you want these?”

Rafe, sweat dripping down his brow, gives his son a curious look. “Over there,” he says, “by the bookcase.”

Scott drops both cartons. Now he sees they’re both labeled _BOOKS_. Oops. “What else?”

“I think that’s everything,” Rafe says, reaching for his water bottle and taking a long gulp. He prods Scott’s bicep with one finger. “What are you benching these days?”

Scott doesn’t answer. “I need to be at Stiles’ by 7.”

Rafe glances at his watch. “I’d tell you to get going so you have time to shower, but you don’t look like you need one.” When Scott doesn’t answer, Rafe clears his throat. “Hey, what time’s your cross country meet? I’m supposed to grab coffee with the mayor, but I was thinking - ”

“You’ll miss it,” Scott interrupts. “Can I go?” He doesn’t wait for his dad’s response, just heads for the door.

“It’s good, what you’re doing for him,” Rafe calls.

Scott stops, hand on the doorknob. “For who? Stiles?”

He hears his dad nod. Rafe takes another swig of water. “Yeah,” he says. “I heard about what happened on the first day of school.”

Scott makes a fist. “I’ll bet you did,” he says bitterly.

“Hey,” says Rafe, and he catches his son by the shoulder. “What’s with the tone? I don’t like it.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t like that you’re moving back to Beacon Hills,” Scott retorts, shrugging his father off.

Rafe crosses his arms. “Scott, we’ve been over this. This isn’t about Stilinski. It’s about - ”

“You still don’t trust him,” Scott interrupts. “Stiles’ dad - ”

“ - has enough to worry about at home,” Rafe finishes. “It’s for the best, Scott.”

Scott slams the door so hard the number falls off. He’s swinging a leg over his bike before his dad can rush outside, en route to Kira’s before Rafe starts yelling.

The kitsune is waiting at her front door for him. “Bye, Dad!” Kira hollers, pink helmet swinging from her fingertips. She grins at Scott. “Hey, how was your - ”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Scott interrupts. He doesn’t wave back when he sees her dad in the window. “Are you ready?”

Kira swings her leg over the back of his bike. “We need to stop at the convenience store,” she says.

“For what?”

He can hear the frown in her voice. “Did you get Stiles’ text?”

Scott fishes out his phone. “I don’t have any messages.”

“Oh,” says Kira, and she sounds flustered. She still has one foot on the pavement. “Maybe he just sent it to me.”

Scott flips down his face guard before muttering, “Surprise, surprise.”

“Well,” says Kira, “Stiles says to bring candy, but the only thing we have in the house are those weird green tea drops Dad likes.”

He softens a little at the gas station, where Kira buys a seemingly endless variety of cookies, chips and candies. “I got you a Kit Kat,” she says cheerfully, getting back on the bike, “and those Cheetos you like.”

But his goodwill disappears at the Stilinskis’ front door. Kira hugs Stiles tightly and holds him at arm’s length. “Does it hurt less than it did Tuesday?”

“Uh, it’s fine,” Stiles says quickly, averting his eyes. That’s when Scott realizes his best friend is, for the first time in months, standing on two legs instead of one.

“You’re wearing it,” Scott says flatly, momentarily distracted by a high-pitched buzzing.

“Stiles has been all week,” Kira chirps.

“You didn’t tell - ” Scott breaks off as Kira slings an arm around Stiles’ shoulder, forcing him to take a clumsy step back. A loud _click_ echoes in Scott’s sensitive ears. “What’s that?” he demands.

“What’s what?” says Stiles, same time as Kira.

“Jinx,” Stiles declares, a slow smile spreading on his lips. “You owe me a Coke.” He reaches for the bag of snacks Kira’s holding. “There better be one in - ”

Kira snatches the bag back. “Of course,” she tells him. “Where do you want this?”

“Uh, dining room,” says Stiles. Kira disappears down the hallway, leaving the two boys alone in the entryway. Stiles grips his walker. “She only knows because she came by after school that day. I didn’t - I thought she’d tell you.”

“No,” says Scott darkly, brushing past Stiles. He doesn’t have to watch Stiles limp down the hallway to know his friend is moving slower with the prosthesis than without.

_Click ... click ... click clickclickclick._

It hits Scott that the high-pitched buzzing that’s making it so hard to think is Stiles’ mechanical knee. He interrupts Stiles and Kira’s chit-chat - they’re spreading the convenience store bounty out on the table - to ask, “Shouldn’t you be doing that in the living room?”

“Oh.” Stiles blinks. “I was thinking we could play poker?”

Kira pipes, “Stiles was telling me about how he used to swindle deputies - ”

“I remember,” Scott interjects. He hovers in the doorway, watching his best friend high-five Kira over an inside joke, leaving Scott to wonder if Stiles’ new leg is the only thing he’s missed.

*           *           *

Stiles loves his friends, really appreciates they’ve been giving up their Fridays to hang out with him, but he just can’t do another movie night. He’s sick of watching Scott nuzzle Kira while Lydia sits bolt upright on the opposite end of the couch, like she’s afraid her arm might accidentally come in contact with his. Not that Stiles blames her. He’s probably lucky she’s willing to come over at all after the overdose.

So Stiles proposes a poker game. He’s not really surprised Kira agrees to play - she’s one of those people who find it a lot harder to say no to him now that he’s down to one leg - but the change of plans seems to irritate Scott, and everything really goes to hell when Malia trails in after Lydia. The banshee makes a beeline for the card table, but Malia hangs back, staring at his knees, like she can see his prosthesis through his sweatpants.

“You don’t mind, do you?” the werecoyote asks.

Stiles shakes his head. “Of course not,” he lies, wondering if she’s only here to ask for his help again. He hasn’t been back to Beacon Hills High, so he hasn’t seen her since the first day of school. But then he watches her smile shyly and nod when Kira offers her a soda, and he thinks maybe Malia’s just happy to be included.

Still, teaching a formerly feral werecoyote how to play poker requires a level of patience Stiles does not possess.

“But I had a king!” Malia insists, throwing her hand down in front of Stiles.

He rubs his temple. “You also had seven cards,” he says wearily, raking in the pile of Skittles, M&Ms and pretzels they’ve been betting with. He gets it, not everyone grew up hustling deputies for vending machine money, but c’mon. Scott just went all in for three of a kind.

Malia frowns. “So?”

“So,” Lydia jumps in, “you should only have five cards. You should have put two down before you drew two more.”

The werecoyote frowns. “But how do I know which two to put down?”

“That’s, uh, kind of the point,” says Stiles. “You gamble.”

“This makes less sense than algebra,” Malia complains, and she eats a handful of the pretzels she’s supposed to be wagering.

The next round Kira gets dealt a four-of-a-kind and gets so excited she drops her cards on the table. Naturally, Stiles, Scott and Lydia fold.

Malia, however, deposits a handful of Skittles in the middle of the table.

“Malia,” says Stiles, “remember how we talked about how some hands are better than others?”

“I have an eight,” she tells him, leaning over to show Stiles her hand. “Kira only has sevens.”

At least Lydia is there. Next hand, the banshee puts on a hell of a bluff that gets Stiles to fold with three fives when all she’s got is two pair. Sure, Malia keeps drawing too many cards, and Kira thinks she’s won with a flush that’s really three hearts and two diamonds.

“Stop it,” Malia declares suddenly.

“Stop what?” Stiles asks.

“Not you,” she says. “Scott. You keep humming. Whenever you have something good.”

The alpha reddens. “I’m not humming.”

“You are, man,” says Stiles, quickly arranging his own hand. Nothing spectacular, just a pair of sixes. “Whenever you think you have good cards, you hum and bet the farm.”

Malia frowns. “I thought we were playing for Twizzlers.”

“It’s a figure of speech, Malia,” says Lydia. “We’ve talked about figures of speech. It just means Scott’s going to wager everything because he thinks he has a good hand.”

They haven’t even bet yet, but the werecoyote already has six cards. “So Scott doesn’t actually have a farm?” she asks, suspicious.

“No, Malia,” says Stiles patiently, decides pointing out the extra card isn’t worth it. “Scotty, want to start the betting?”

Scott’s still a little flushed. He drums his fingers on the table, and finally says, “Check.”

The werecoyote turns to Stiles. “I think he’s lying,” she says. “He really wants to bet.”

Stiles doesn’t think before he claps her on the shoulder. “You might actually be good at this one day, Malia,” he says, then realizes he’s still got a hand on her back. He quickly withdraws it.

It’s Kira’s turn. “Check.”

Like she does every hand, Malia looks at Stiles expectantly. “I want to bet.”

“Then put your money on the table,” he says, watching her throw out a fun-size bag of M&M’s. “And I’ll see your M&M’s and raise you two Twizzlers and a Jolly Rancher.”

The candy goes into the pile. It’s Lydia’s turn. “Call,” she says, adding an Oreo and twelve green Skittles to the pot. “What? I don’t like the lime ones.”

Scott throws in a handful of pretzels, which Stiles argues isn’t worth as much as Lydia’s cookie or his Twizzlers, so the werewolf is forced to add a couple of Tootsie Rolls. Kira folds.

Scott trades in one card. Malia trades in three, gets back two. Stiles is feeling a little reckless, so he gives up three cards, including one of his sixes. It pays off - he picks up three diamonds for a flush. The banshee trades in two. Then it’s Scott’s turn to bet again. He raises. Malia sighs, then folds.

“Someone’s happy with his hand,” says Stiles. He figures Scott’s still banking on hitting it big with his original four cards, not anything he’d picked up on the draw, and decides he likes his odds. He throws a few more Jolly Ranchers into the middle. Lydia antes a Twizzler.

Sure enough, Stiles’ flush beats Scott’s two pair. “It’s pretty bad when _Malia_ knows you have a tell,” he declares.

“Hey!” she protests.

“Dude, you had _nine_ cards at one point.”

Malia glares at him. _“Fine,”_ she concedes.

“I don’t have a tell,” Scott complains.

“Boys,” says Lydia, dropping her cards on the table. She was holding the other two sixes and three nines. She smiles sweetly as she sweeps the pot to her side of the table. “We should try blackjack next. I think I’d be good at counting cards.”

Stiles groans, leaning back so hard in his chair it starts to tip. He quickly plants his good foot on the floor. “On that note,” he says, “I’m going to get more pretzels. Because you guys can’t stop eating the poker chips.”

Only Kira has the good sense to look guilty through a mouthful of M&Ms.

Scott, who’s been a little cold to Stiles all night, is already on his feet. “Sit back down,” he says. “I’ll get - ”

“I’m not helpless,” Stiles snaps. When he realizes there are four pairs of eyes on him, he adds, “I mean, why have this high-tech leg if I’m not going to use it?”

He’s halfway to the kitchen when Lydia materializes behind him.

Stiles groans. “Not you, too.”

“Me?” Lydia asks, holding up her empty glass and walking over to the fridge. “I came in here for more water.”

“That’s been empty for the last five hands,” Stiles points out, “and suddenly you need a refill?”

The banshee shrugs. “We were taking a break.”

They face off for a moment. Finally, Lydia takes a sip of her water, and Stiles plucks a bag of pretzels from the pantry.

“It’s good seeing you on your feet,” she says finally.

It’s automatic, reflexive. “Foot,” Stiles corrects. “I still only have one foot.”

Lydia doesn’t say anything, just glances at the Rold Gold bag in his hand.

“I can do both,” he insists.

“OK,” says Lydia, and the arm she waves is a clear invitation. _Be my guest._

But of course Stiles puts too much weight on his prosthesis and almost loses his balance. “It’s fine, Lydia, I’m - ”

The second the banshee grabs his arm, it’s like ice pumping through his veins. Lydia must feel it, too, because her mouth falls open, a scream caught in her throat. That’s when Stiles sees it: the body, black and bloated, battered badge pinned on the breast pocket.

“No,” Stiles says, “no, no, no - ”

Lydia lets go of his arm, and the kitchen swims back into focus. He tries to catch his breath. He tightens his grip on the walker.

“It wasn’t your dad,” she whispers. “It was the missing - ”

“Is everything OK?” Kira calls from the doorway. She looks at them strangely. “Here, Stiles, let me help - ”

“I just remembered,” Lydia interjects, “my parents switched weekends. I’m supposed to be at my dad’s.”

“Oh,” says Kira, Scott and Malia now behind her. Stiles wishes his heart would stop pounding. “Well - ”

“I can call my dad,” says Malia. “He can pick me up.”

And just like that, Lydia is gone. Stiles has to forcibly shove Scott’s hands away. He throws the pretzels down on the table. “We don’t have to keep playing,” he says, glancing up at the clock.

_It’s only a matter of time before Lydia screams, anyway._

*           *           *

“Parrish,” he says briskly into the receiver, leaning back in his chair.

“It’s me,” says Lydia. “I need help.”

There’s a creak as he sits bolt upright. “What kind of help?” he asks. “Lydia, are you -”

“I’m not hurt,” she interrupts. “Meet me outside Jenning’s Glass. Come alone.”

“Why are you at an abandoned bottle - ”

But she’s already hung up the phone. Parrish swallows, casting a sidelong glance at Arroyo. He stands, tucking his thumbs in his belt. “Hey, I’m going to drive by the warehouse district. There’s been a couple of noise complaints.”

He’s expecting a grunt, for her to jerk her head in the briefest of nods. But the other deputy rises from her chair, too. “I’m going stir crazy here,” she says. “I’ll come with you.”

Parrish ducks his head. “That’s, uh, not really necessary,” he says quickly.

Arroyo crosses her arms. “Your boss - ” her eyes flicker to the sheriff’s shuttered office “ - is the one who wants two officers responding to every noise complaint.”

John’s door has remained closed for most of Parrish’s shift. He emerged once, around dinner time, turning down Parrish’s offer to pick up food in favor of a Snickers bar and a Coke.

“He’s your boss, too,” Parrish points out.

Arroyo snorts. “I’ll drive,” she says, reaching for his keys.

Parrish steps in front of her. “No.”

“No?”

He pushes past her. “I don’t need a sidekick, Arroyo.”

The _“fuck you”_ she mutters is just audible beneath her breath. Parrish flushes, but he doesn’t look back.

Ten minutes later he’s pulling up outside the old bottle factory. The flashing lights give Lydia’s pale skin an eerie glow. “Sorry,” he says, slamming the door of the cruiser. “Arroyo wanted to - ”

“I found Sheriff Sanders,” she interrupts.

“You - ” Parrish rubs his mouth “ - found Sheriff Sanders.”

“Yes,” says Lydia. “He’s dead.”

This is bad. This is really bad. “Lydia,” he says, crossing his arms, “why’d you call me? Why not call - ”

“I called you because I couldn’t call Stiles!” she snaps. There’s a pause before she admits in a small voice, “Usually I call Stiles when I find a body.”

Parrish swallows the lump in his throat. _Right._ “OK,” he hears himself saying. “OK. What do you need?”

“Ten minutes,” she says. “Ten minutes, and you can call the sheriff or the FBI or - ”

It’s a dig, and Parrish knows it. “Fine,” he replies, unholstering his gun, “but you have to stay out here until I can sweep the building.” She doesn’t reply. “I mean it, Lydia. _Stay here.”_

He doesn’t have his Maglite on him, but he doesn’t need it. Moonlight pierces the broken windows, illuminating the old production lines. It doesn’t take Parrish any time to find the dead sheriff. Sanders’ body is black and bloated, shining star still pinned to his breast pocket.

He almost gags at the appearance of a wiggling maggot.

“The _smell,”_ Parrish coughs when he comes back out for her. He waves Lydia over to his car, producing a tube of Vick’s VaboRub and dabbing it under his nose. “Here,” he says, handing it to her.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” Lydia asks, skeptical.

Parrish mimes what he just did. “Helps with the smell of decomp,” he says, menthol wafting up through his nostrils. “You’ll thank me,” he tells her, and this time he grabs his flashlight.

Lydia nods. “OK,” she says in that same, small voice.

He softens. “You don’t have to,” he tells her.

But the banshee is resolute. “No,” she insists, “this is something I need to do.”

Still, Lydia backs into him at the first sight of Sanders. “Easy,” he whispers, hand skimming her side, “breathe, Lydia.”

She nods, breaking away from him. Lydia crouches just beyond the sticky pile of fluids leaking from the once-tan uniform. She closes her eyes.

“Don’t touch anything,” Parrish calls.

The banshee opens her eyes to glare at him. “I’m not going to,” she huffs, _“obviously.”_ She closes them again.

He cranes his neck. “Anything?”

“Quiet,” Lydia admonishes. “I need - ”

He has to hook an arm around her to keep her from pitching forward, dragging her away from the body. Her eyelids flutter, red lips forming words without making a sound. He claps a hand over her mouth before she can scream, wrestling her out of the warehouse.

“Lydia!” he says, frantic. “Lydia - ”

He’s reaching for his radio to call for backup when she squirms out of his embrace. “Let go of me,” she says crossly.

Parrish does at once. “I’m sorry,” he says, not sure where to look as she straightens her blouse. “I couldn’t let you taint - ”

“It’s fine,” says Lydia. She takes a deep breath. “His throat was slit. You’re looking for a dagger. Small, ceremonial. It has a black handle inlaid with rubies.”

“Did you see who did it?” Parrish wants to know. Lydia shakes her head. “Go sit in my car, OK? I gotta call this in.”

And he does, though Lydia doesn’t move.

“C’mon,” Parrish urges, trying to usher her towards the SUV. “Just get in - ”

“No.”

“What do you mean, ‘No?’” Parrish asks.

“That’s not how it works. I don’t stick - you can tell Stiles’ dad the truth, but no one else,” Lydia says. “I can’t be here when the cops arrive.”

“I’m a cop,” he points out.

Already he can hear the wail of sirens in the distance. He grabs Lydia’s arm. She whirls on him. “I thought I could trust you,” she says angrily.

He blinks. “You can.”

“Then let me get out of here,” Lydia hisses.

His fingers dig into her wrist. “Lydia, I could lose my - ”

_“Let go.”_

“Lydia, wait - ”

But the banshee has already stalked off into the shadows. Parrish takes a deep breath. He has about three minutes, he guesses, to come up with a plausible story. “Someone called in a noise complaint,” he mutters, “you doubted it was a big deal. You drove by with lights, no sirens, didn’t see anything. That’s when you noticed the smell.”

He’s repeated the story a half-dozen times - including once to a furious Arroyo - by the time the sheriff emerges from the warehouse.

“Sir,” Arroyo pipes, “you should know, it’s another Strayer Industries - ”

“I know, Arroyo,” John says evenly. He jerks his thumb at the just-arrived Butte County medical examiner. “I need you and Haines at the morgue. Sheriff Sanders’ body stays in Beacon County until you hear otherwise. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” says Haines at once.

Arroyo hangs back. “Sheriff - ”

“I need you where I need you, Arroyo,” John interrupts. “Parrish, come with me.”

He can feel Arroyo’s eyes on him as the sheriff beckons him closer. “Sir - ”

“Save it, Parrish,” John says, and Arroyo, mollified, takes off after Haines. The sheriff holds open the warehouse door and ushers Parrish inside. Crime scene investigators from both jurisdictions are milling about, flood lamps illuminating the gruesome scene. Out of the corner of his mouth, John asks, “Care to explain?”

There’s a print from a woman’s pump in the blood, flagged with a bright yellow marker.

Parrish gulps.

John frog-marches his deputy back out of the warehouse. “Well?” John demands. “What do you have to say for - ”

“You said it yourself, sir,” Parrish says, matching the sheriff’s stance. “Lydia finds the bodies.”

“And what if forensics is able to link her to the scene, huh? How’s that going to look?”

“Lydia’s what, 5-foot-3, 115 pounds? Is anyone really going to believe she slit Sheriff Sanders’ throat?”

“The ME hasn’t ruled on cause of death,” John huffs, face red.

“So forensics links Lydia to the scene. She’ll say she was in the area and smelled something funny, decided to investigate. No one would blame her for panicking when she found the body.”

“Sure sounds like you’ve given this some thought, son.”

Parrish sets his jaw. “I’ve had to,” he says finally, “because the teenagers you’ve entrusted with this town’s protection are bound to make mistakes.”

“Get outta my sight, Parrish,” the sheriff growls.

But Parrish isn’t going anywhere. “Arroyo’s right. I don’t think it’s coincidence this building is owned by - ”

“I know the owner.”

Parrish ... wasn’t expecting that. “You do?”

“He’s right over there,” John says, and he waves Derek over.

The werewolf is wearing a worn leather jacket over dusty jeans. He looks more like a contractor than a creature of the night - at least until his eyes catch the light from a nearby squad car and flash electric blue for a half-second. Derek nods at the sheriff but doesn’t acknowledge Parrish.

“Thanks for coming,” John says. “Lydia tipped off Parrish here about the body. When’s the last time you were in the building?”

Derek squints at a long row of busted windows. “Two, three months ago?” he guesses. “I only closed on it in March. My lawyer will know.”

“You might want to call him,” John advises.

“I already have.”

But Parrish is still processing the fact that Derek Hale owns _property._ “It’s your building?” Derek nods. “What do you need a bottle factory for?”

The werewolf ignores him. “Lydia usually finds - ” he sniffs the air “ - fresher bodies.”

John steps forward, forcing Derek into the shadows as a forensic analyst hurries past with an armful of evidence bags. “The coroner hasn’t established time of death, but I’m going to guess _a while.”_ He turns to Parrish. “Did Lydia - ”

“She said we were looking for a ceremonial dagger, black handle, inlaid with rubies.”

John groans. “No,” he says, “no, no, not another dark druid.” He take a full minute to regain composure. “Did Lydia say where she was going?”

“Home?” Parrish guesses, though as soon as the words leave his mouth he knows for a fact the banshee won’t be there.

“Do you want me to find her?” Derek asks.

The sheriff runs his thumb along his lip. “No,” he says finally, “no, that won’t be necessary.” He swallows. “Could you check with Scott, make sure he can stay with - ”

“If he can’t, I can,” says Derek, and he disappears into the night.

Once the werewolf is gone, Parrish asks, “Are you mad at me, sir?”

But the sheriff is already walking away. “I’ve got a dead sheriff, a contaminated crime scene and a territorial pissing contest, Parrish. I just want to get out of here before - ”

A dark SUV wheels into the lot so fast John throws an arm out to check Parrish.

“Great,” John mutters, “just great.”

Agent McCall is out of the vehicle in a flash. “Why didn’t you call me?” he demands. “Why - ”

“Relax,” John grunts, “we only found the body an hour ago.”

A piece of paper crinkles beneath him as Parrish slips back into his own patrol car.

On the back of a receipt, Lydia’s written, _I won’t call you again._

*           *           *

“I was starting to think you were staying with Stiles after all.”

Derek freezes. “No,” he settles on, tossing his leather jacket over the back of the sofa. “Scott’s with him. But I had to take Kira and Malia home.”

Predictably, the banshee follows him into the kitchen. “You’re not going to ask why I’m here?” Her sharp eyes follow him from the cabinet to the sink as he fills up a glass of water.

Derek downs half of it before responding. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t need help.”

“No,” Lydia agrees.

The only reason Derek has to help Lydia is Stiles, slow to trust but quick to defend the banshee. But the stench of death clings to Derek’s nostrils, and he doubts even Stiles could explain away the decaying sheriff. So he takes his time with the glass, wipes the rim with the sponge when normally he wouldn’t give it more than a cursory rinse before placing it upside down in the drying rack. “Why should I help you?”

“Because you also want to know why I didn’t find Sheriff Sanders sooner.”

Derek shrugs. “Not particularly.”

“You know,” says Lydia, pushing her palms flat against the counter, shoulders hunched just so, “I might not be able to hear your heartbeat, but I can still tell you’re lying.”

Two can play at that game. “Oh yeah?” Derek counters, intentionally brushing her arm as he presses his own palms flat. “Do you really think your red lipstick is going to have the same effect on me as it does Parrish?”

It’s only after he says it, only after her heart skips a beat, that Derek realizes he’s asserting his dominance in a situation where he already has all the power. The fact that Lydia’s even here means she’s either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.

_Or incredibly desperate._

Derek takes an immediate step back. “You want to talk to Peter,” he says flatly.

Lydia bites her lip. “Last year he told me it’s not the scream that gives me power,” she says, “but rather it’s a way to drown out the noise. He said he could help me learn how to listen.”

“And you believed him?” Derek demands. “Don’t tell me he’s the one helping you.” Annoyed, he begins to pace.

“What? No one’s helping me,” Lydia lies.

Derek stops pacing so he can glare at her. “I spent months trying to translate that book and never got past the first page. Someone helped you.”

There’s a brief standoff. Then Lydia admits, “Fine. I had help. I can’t tell you who, but it wasn’t Peter.” Her heart beats steadily.

“Fine,” says Derek, gritting his teeth. He’s long suspected Deaton or perhaps even Argent, but it’s not really the time. “Why go to him now?”

It’s Lydia’s turn to pace. “He knew what he was doing,” she says, wringing her hands, “when he bit me, he knew it wouldn’t turn me. Maybe - ”

“Maybe,” Derek interjects, “he’ll rip your throat out this time and be done with it.”

“He won’t if you go with me.”

Derek crosses his arms. “If you think I’m going to help you get manipulated by my psychotic uncle, then all that screaming’s addled your brain.”

“But I didn’t scream!” Lydia throws up her hands in exasperation. She rubs her temples wearily. “I didn’t scream, and you can’t tell me you’re not the least bit curious why.”

“Nope.”

“Fine,” the banshee says waspishly. _“Fine._ I’ll go - ”

Derek grabs her arm. “You’ll do no such thing,” he admonishes.

“Take your hand off me.”

“Tell me why you’re so desperate to talk to Peter.”

_“Let go, Derek.”_

“Not until you tell me what you’re - ”

“I have to make sure it wasn’t me!” Lydia shouts. Wild-eyed, she continues, “I have to make sure I didn’t trade Sheriff Sanders or anyone else’s life to save Stiles.”

Derek immediately releases her. “Let me get my jacket,” he says quietly.

*           *           *

She’s pretty enough, the woman Peter met in the bar, but he promptly loses interest at the tell-tale thud of the banshee’s heart. “Sorry,” he tells his date, not sorry at all, “but maybe another time.”

He licks his lips as the disgruntled brunette buttons her shirt. “You’re an asshole,” she spits as he shows her the door.

Peter pauses. “That’s not why you came home with me?” he deadpans, a second before the door slams in her face. He collects their wine glasses and is about to straighten the throw pillows when he zeros in on a second heartbeat, even more familiar than the first. He stops. No point in fussing with the pillows when Derek will just smell him out.

He hauls the door open a second before Lydia can knock. His eyes sweep her slightly-parted lips, all that delectable pale skin. He loves that one look has her tugging on the hem of her short, short skirt. _Did you wear that for me?_ “Well, well. To whom do I owe this pleasure? The banshee _finally_ pays me a visit.”

Derek doesn’t bother with pleasantries, just pushes his way through the door. “No, please,” Peter calls after his nephew, “won’t you come in?” He gives Lydia a silky smile. “What? Afraid I’m going to bite?”

At this, Lydia charges in after Derek, tasteful nude pumps clicking on the imported hardwoods as she makes her way to the couch. Instead of following them into the living room, Peter goes to the the kitchen. “Can I get you anything?” he calls. “Perhaps a - ”

“We’re not staying,” Derek grunts.

 _Typical Derek._ “Lydia, you’ll have to forgive my nephew,” Peter says. “He was raised by wolves.” He chuckles at his own joke and pours a second goblet of red, which he sets in front of Lydia. “It’s a 2005 Pape Clement.”

Derek pushes the glass back to him, purple wine sloshing onto the coffee table. “She’s 17.”

Peter decides the splash of lost wine isn’t worth mourning and takes a sip of his own. “A glorious, smoky bouquet,” he says, “displaying notions of graphite, plums, cassis, licorice and subtle oak.”

He’s stalling, of course. He needs time to read them, to read the situation. Derek’s easy, a day or two of stubble doing little to conceal his tense jaw, shoulders set in Jim’s worn jacket. His nephew smells overwhelmingly of the Stilinski boy - no surprises there, Derek’s always had horrible taste - but there’s another smell, static electricity, that’s harder to place.

Typically, tricksters and shapeshifters don’t have much in common. But the kitsune is clearly still in play. It ... surprises Peter. So much so, he almost misses Malia’s scent on Derek. It’s at once very Hale, undercut by that adoptive lumberjack his wolf longs to take out.

Peter leans forward, allows himself a long look at Lydia’s beautiful neck. “I have to say, Derek, I’m surprised you’re here. I thought you’d forgotten about our bargain.” He tears his eyes off the banshee just in time to see Derek’s tendons flex. It’s a small gesture, involuntary. But it tells Peter everything he needs to know. “But you’re not here to repay a debt, are you? You’ve come to take out a whole new line of credit.”

“He’s not the one that will owe you the favor.” The banshee’s voice rings out sharp and clear. “I’m the one that needs your help.”

“Of course you are,” Peter says, lips curling right past a smile into a smirk. “Finally decide to embrace the gift I gave you?”

“Did you know? Did you know when you bit me what I’d become?”

He takes a sip of wine. “I knew I could expect great things from you,” he says simply.

“But did you know I’d become a banshee?”

In truth, he hadn’t. He hadn’t even planned to bite Lydia that night on the lacrosse field. He’d only wanted to lure Stiles away from the dance. But then all he could hear was the pounding of her heart, blood pulsing through her veins, and the monster doubled back for a taste.

It had turned out for the best, really.

Peter settles on, “You quickly became part of my plan.”

The banshee sets her red lips in a thin line. “You used me to claw your way back to life.”

“Well, yes.” But Peter’s patience is wearing thin. Derek and Lydia have been there for ten minutes, and he still hasn’t sniffed out what Lydia wants. He takes a deep breath. Bleach. Acetone. Dirt. Wilting flowers. Skittles. Old Spice deodorant. _A new boyfriend?_ Death. Decay. “You found a body.”

There’s a moment’s hesitation, and Lydia nods. “But he didn’t die recently,” she tells Peter, a confession.

“Obviously not.”

“I didn’t scream.” Lydia wrings her hands. “When he died, I didn’t scream.”

He’s careful to keep his face impassive. “We’ve been over this,” he says, faux-patiently. “It’s not the scream that gives you power - ”

“ - it just drowns out the noise.” Lydia swallows hard. “What happens if I don’t scream?”

Peter shrugs. “No one said you had to listen.” He watches her lips, which part slightly, then press closed. “Unless - someone has.” Lydia doesn’t say anything. Delighted, he continues, “I knew you wouldn’t be content to sit back and let all that God-given talent go to waste.”

Next to Lydia, Derek snorts. “I wouldn’t call it God-given.”

“I don’t know,” Peter says snidely, “I have a pretty high opinion of myself.” He returns his focus to Lydia. He leans forward, hands clasped, and tells her, “Banshees can tune into a channel the rest of us can’t. But can you learn how to listen? Or will you just broadcast louder?”

By her own admission, Lydia’s already tuned in. Yet the banshee bites her lip and asks Peter, “I don’t know. Can I?”

Hot anger boils up in Peter as the sweet mint hits his nostrils. That’s it. That’s why Peter has had such a hard time reading her. Lydia positively _reeks_ of menthol.

And of course Derek would know how much his uncle hates the smell. Talia used to dab the medicated cream on his human nieces when the pathetic creatures would catch cold, cloying scent dulling his senses for days. Peter’s fingers are digging into Lydia’s wrist before Derek can stop him. _“Where have you been,”_ he snarls, _“and why are you trying to hide it from me?”_

“What? I - ”

But Derek’s already wedging himself between them, pushing his uncle back with a roar. “If you touch her again - ”

“You’ll what?” Peter retorts, watching Lydia rub her wrist. “You’re quite the dutiful guard dog, Derek, but are you sure you could take me in a fight?”

Derek is already steering the banshee toward the door. “C’mon, Lydia,” he growls, “we’re going.”

There’s no need to listen to them bicker as they leave his building. Peter’s already gleaned what he needs to know from their visit. For one, his nephew’s no longer an omega. He’s too strong, too fast. The only logical conclusion is Derek has joined the pack of the teenage werewolf Peter once bit. That’s the bad news.

The good news - Peter smiles just thinking of it - is whoever’s helping Lydia open the channel between this world and the next hasn’t bothered to tell the banshee what she’s doing. And that’s a vulnerability he plans to exploit.

*           *           *

“This is nuts,” John mutters under his breath, but he knocks on the door of the animal clinic just the same. He crosses his arms and waits for Deaton to answer.

“I’m sorry,” the veterinarian calls from inside, “but we’re closed on Mondays. The number for the emergency - Sheriff.” The lock clicks, and Deaton holds the door open for John. “I don’t suppose this is about one of the K9 officers.”

The sheriff is still standing on the step. “No,” he says with a sigh, and he follows Deaton into the office. “It’s about the Butte County Sheriff.”

Deaton busies himself with a stack of paperwork, shuffling bills into two stacks on his desk. “I’m afraid I won’t be of much help,” he says. “I never met Sheriff Sanders.”

“What do you know about how he died?”

John watches the veterinarian’s hands, which hesitate for just a minute before dropping a yellow envelope into the second stack. “Just what I saw on the news, Sheriff.”

“So Scott didn’t say anything to you about the murder?”

Deaton drops one of the stacks into an open file drawer. “Now that you mention it, he was running late Saturday morning because he’d stayed overnight with Stiles. He said you lost track of time checking out a lead.”

At this, John feels his face heat up. He’d been at the station most of the weekend, totally reliant on Scott and Derek to babysit his kid while he raced the clock. Not that it had mattered. That morning McCall had smiled smugly as a judge ordered the sheriff to turn the investigation over to the FBI.

John runs his fingers along the countertop. He thinks about McCall setting up shop in the station conference room and admits, “I need help.”

“What makes you think I’ll be able to provide it?” Deaton replies, finally lifting his chin.

The sheriff’s gaze settles on the bulletin board behind the desk. There’s a picture of Scott playing with a retriever under the words, “Meet the vet tech!” _More like meet the improbable teenage alpha werewolf._

John settles on, “I think we both know.”

To his surprise, Deaton nods. “Honestly, Sheriff, I’m somewhat surprised it took you this long to pay me a visit.”

The words are out of his mouth before John can stop himself. “Why, because you were so helpful last time?”

But the veterinarian only chuckles. “You’ll have to forgive me. Scott and I had yet to finalize … our agreement.”

“Which is?” John presses.

Deaton doesn’t answer, just beckons for the sheriff to follow him as he disappears into the back room. After a moment’s hesitation, John follows. The swinging half-gate feels heavy as the sheriff releases it.

There’s a cat curled up on the exam table that hisses when Deaton produces an intricately carved wooden box. “Mountain ash isn’t harmful to household pets,” the veterinarian tells John as the cat leaps down and streaks into the lobby, “but certainly some of them can sense its power.” Deaton lifts a handful of what looks to John like sand from the box and lets it slip through his fingers.

John’s pretty sure he’s going to have to check himself into Eichen House after this talk. Still, he asks, “What’s it do?”

“It repels shapeshifters,” Deaton says vaguely, “or else traps them, depending on how it’s cast.”

“Shapeshifters,” John repeats. “Like werewolves?” The veterinarian nods. “So it’s like wolfsbane, then.”

“I didn’t say it was a poison,” says Deaton, and without warning, he throws a handful of ash at the sheriff. Before John can lift an arm to shield his eyes, it’s fallen in a perfect circle around them.

“What the - ” John starts, and his instinct is to kick the sand with his toe. But it’s not ordinary sand. It doesn’t budge. He stares quizzically at the veterinarian. He’s about to get down on the ground to take a closer look when Deaton grabs his arm.

“A ring of mountain ash has many uses,” the veterinarian explains. “For example, it could be used to contain an out-of-control werewolf during the full moon. But my intention is for this conversation to remain private. If an unfriendly werewolf were eavesdropping, he wouldn’t hear a thing.”

“Is that what we’re dealing with?” John wants to know. “Did a werewolf kill Sheriff Sanders?”

“I’m not sure, Sheriff. What do you think?”

The sheriff rubs his mouth. Finally, he nods once, twice, tells Deaton, “Officially, the body’s too far gone for the local coroner to determine cause of death. There might be someone at the state that can figure it out - ” John shakes his head “ - but I’m not holding my breath.”

“And unofficially?”

“Unofficially, I have a teenage girl prone to fugue states and running naked through the woods telling me to look for a fancy dagger.” John exhales.

Deaton considers this. “When it comes to death, Lydia’s far more of an expert than I’ll ever be.”

“She described the dagger to Deputy Parrish as ‘ceremonial,’” John counters. “Can I trouble you for your expert opinion on that?”

At this, the veterinarian shrugs. “You’ve dealt with dark druids before, Sheriff.”

“So I _am_ dealing with a dark druid.”

“I didn’t say that.”

They square off. “This has been helpful,” John says sarcastically, jerking a thumb toward the door. “I’ll let myself out.”

He steps tentatively out of the circle of mountain ash. Nothing happens. He’s halfway to the lobby when Deaton calls, “It’s not in a banshee’s nature to appear weeks after death.”

John freezes. _“‘Lydia usually finds fresher bodies,’”_ he mutters.

“I didn’t catch that, Sheriff.”

He turns slowly to face Deaton, still standing in the protective ring. “It’s what Derek said at the scene. ‘Lydia usually finds fresher bodies.’ I didn’t think much of it.”

“Interesting,” the veterinarian intones. His arms cross. “And what about Deputy Parrish? What’s his involvement?”

John shrugs. “Lydia called him when she found the body, that’s all. Why?”

Deaton shakes his head. “No reason.” With a sweep of his arm, the ash circle scatters. “I’ll see what I can turn up on ceremonial daggers, Sheriff.”

He knows when he’s being dismissed. It’s happening more and more these days. “Thanks, Dr. Deaton,” John says firmly. This time, the druid doesn’t try to call him back.

*           *           *

The file box lands on Parrish’s desk with a thud, scattering the incident report he’s been working on. His pen clatters to the floor, too, but not before leaving an inch-long mark on his pants. Agent McCall smirks as Parrish examines it. “Want to do some real police work, Deputy?” he asks, crossing his arms.

Parrish ducks under his desk, careful not to brain himself on the way back up. “Already am, sir,” he says, reaching for the incident report.

McCall swipes it. “‘Caller reports seeing a large dog in the road,’” he reads.

The last thing McCall needs to know is it’s department policy to send two officers to the scene of every animal sighting. “Give me that,” Parrish says, snatching it back. He does his best not to look at the box. _Property of the Butte County Sheriff._

“You’re not even going to ask?” McCall challenges.

Parrish swallows, eyeing John’s closed office door. The sheriff had left an hour earlier, no word on where he was going, no estimation for when he’d be back. “Nope,” he says. “I already have an assignment.”

McCall taps the box with two fingers. “Consider yourself reassigned,” he says. “I need someone not involved with any of these cases to look through these files for anything they missed.”

“No disrespect, sir, but isn’t that your job?”

The FBI agent is already walking away. “Stilinski trusts you, Parrish. Let’s see if his judgment’s right for once.”

Normally Parrish would have no problem walking all the case files back to the conference room McCall’s been officing out of. But it occurs to him this box probably contains information on the unsolved Walker family murders.

McCall doesn’t look up when Parrish walks in. Probably because he’s pleading with his ex-wife on the phone. “C’mon, Melissa,” the agent is saying, “he’s not going to agree - ”

He breaks off when Parrish drops the box on the rickety conference table. “Hang on a minute,” he says, holding the phone to his chest. “Was that really necessary? You could have just told me you weren’t going to do it.”

“I never said I wasn’t going to do it,” Parrish says, pulling up a chair. “I just thought I’d have fewer interruptions in here.”

McCall glares at the deputy, then holds the phone up to his ear. “I gotta go, Melissa,” he says, “but this conversation isn’t - ”

Even Parrish hears the _click._ He has to duck very fast behind the file box to hide his smirk.

“Think it’s funny, do you?” McCall asks, irritated.

“No, sir,” says Parrish quickly. He doesn’t want to get tossed before he’s had a chance to dig into Sanders’ old case files. Well, one in particular.

But Parrish spends an hour reading incident reports and evidence lists without uncovering a single clue as to what happened. He throws down a file labeled _Watkins burglary_ and clears his throat. “You know what I’m not seeing in here?” he asks McCall, who doesn’t look up. “Anything about that triple homicide a few years back. January 2005, 2006?”

The FBI agent’s pen stops scratching. “You heard about that,” he says evenly, glancing across the makeshift workspace. Parrish nods. McCall resumes writing. “Sad business.”

“Yeah?” Parrish says, heart hammering. “Shouldn’t - I mean, no one was ever caught, right?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“No?”

This time McCall tosses the pen, lets it roll almost to the edge of the table, catches it before it can plummet to the floor. “Sounds like whoever told you this story left out a few key details. Like how Sanders found Tom Walker’s teenage daughter holding a bloody knife and screaming her head off.”

“No,” Parrish says at once, “not Meredith.”

McCall licks his lips. “Yeah, yeah, Meredith Walker. I’d forgotten her name. But she was a sort of local celebrity, a star high school athlete diagnosed with brain cancer after a concussion revealed a tumor. The whole town rallied around her. There were bake sales and charity walks to help her family pay for surgery. But once they took the tumor out, she started hearing voices. They told her to kill her entire family. She waited until her brother came home from Cal State - ” McCall makes a crude slashing motion “ - and that was the end of that.”

Parrish is going to be sick. “But no charges were ever filed,” he insisted. “No - ”

“Parrish, the girl was clearly nuts,” McCall says. He snorts. “So tell whoever told you about the murders in the first place nice try, but it doesn’t have anything to do with what happened to Sanders.”

*           *           *

“I don’t know what I’m listening for,” Malia complains, ear pressed to her father’s safe.

Stiles’ nervous knee knocks into the desk as he swivels back and forth. “You’ll hear a click - ”

He breaks off when her hand lands on his thigh. “Sit still,” she admonishes, watching the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. Malia bites her lip. As a coyote, she could stand for hours, still and silent, to hunt or hide. But she’s not sure _still_ is in Stiles’ vocabulary. Back when they’d dated, he’d been in constant motion, limbs twitching, fingers tapping, lashes fluttering. If anything, the accident sped Stiles up, not that anyone else has noticed. With fewer outlets for his excess energy now, he’s constantly restless. “Just for a minute, OK? I can’t concentrate when you’re making noise.”

Stiles nods. Malia lets go of his leg. She takes a deep breath and spins the dial again, numbers on the combination whirring past. But all Malia hears is Stiles’ heavy breathing, Apollo crunching kibble in the kitchen, her neighbor trying to start a spluttering leaf blower half a mile down the road.

No clicks.

“You’re doing it again,” Malia tells Stiles, irritated.

“What? I’m not - ”

“Breath quieter,” she hisses. _Thawp thawp thawp._ “Are you - are you bouncing your stump?”

“No,” Stiles lies, but out of the corner of her eye, she sees she’s caught him mid-flex.

Malia sighs. She’s about to give up, suggest she smash the safe and blame it on the dog, when she hears the click. To her sensitive ears, it’s as loud as the hammer fall of a gun. “Eleven!” she calls out triumphantly.

“OK, OK,” says Stiles excitedly, sliding forward in her father’s desk chair, “now turn it the other way, _slowly_ \- ”

“Seven,” Malia interrupts. She glances over her shoulder. Stiles’ brow is furrowed. “What?”

“Try 13,” he suggests at the same time she hears the third tell-tale click.

Sure enough, the dial is pointed to 13. “How’d you know that?” she demands.

Stiles’ flicker to a framed photo of her and her father on the desk, then dart back just as fast. “Lucky guess.”

Malia is already pawing through the safe. She stares at Caitlin’s birth certificate for a second - “Focus, Malia,” she mutters - then pushes it aside.

“What was that?” Stiles asks, biting his nail.

“My sister’s birth certificate,” Malia replies, flipping very fast through a stack of boring mortgage documents.

“I thought your sister was adopted, too,” Stiles says in what’s clearly supposed to be a casual voice.

Malia glares at him. “Adopted kids get birth certificates, too, you know,” she says hotly. “They’re just amended, that’s all.” The second part is mumbled because she’d _kill_ to get her hands on the original. Then their search for her birth mom would be over.

But Stiles isn’t listening. “What’s that?” he says, pointing. “If you keep flipping so fast, you might miss something.”

Malia stares at her mother’s life insurance policy. She hastily shoves the entire pile of papers in the safe. “Yeah, well, if I don’t, then the chance my dad gets home and catches us goes up.”

She yanks out a manila folder, heart beating very fast. “Is that it?” Stiles wants to know.

“I think so,” Malia whispers. “Should we - ” That’s when she hears it, her dad’s truck idling in front of the neighbor’s house as the two men lament the annual battle to keep the falling leaves at bay. Malia shoves the folder into Stiles’ hands. “We have to get out of here.”

He stares at it. “What do you want me to do with this?”

“Shove it in your bag,” Malia says, practically tossing his backpack at him. She slams the safe shut and spins the dial. “C’mon, move!”

But Stiles isn’t exactly quick on his feet these days. With the wheels of her dad’s truck spinning on the gravel outside the house, Apollo barking happily because his master is home, Malia has no choice but to haul Stiles out of the chair. She half-drags, half-carries him into the living room.

“I can - ”

“Get your laptop out,” Malia orders, depositing him on the couch and doubling back for his crutches. She props them against the end of the couch and drops into the seat next to him, wedging her shoulder in under Stiles’ as her dad walks into the living room. “Hi!” she chirps.

Mr. Tate drops a kiss on her head. “Hi, sweetheart,” he says, and he crosses his arms when he steps back. “Stiles.”

“Hey, Mr. Tate,” Stiles says. “I hope it’s OK - ”

“I’m sure you remember the rules, Stiles,” Mr. Tate says evenly. “Stay out of Malia’s bedroom, and - ” his eyes flicker to the empty space between his daughter and Stiles’ right thigh “ - keep your one foot on the floor, OK?”

“Will do, sir,” Stiles says, cheeks flushed. He absently scritches Apollo’s greying muzzle as the dog rests his head on Stiles’ knee.

At this, Mr. Tate smiles. “Someone’s happy to have his buddy back,” he calls on his way to the kitchen.

Malia glances at Stiles’ slack shorts. “Why aren’t you wearing your leg, anyway?”

Stiles still has one arm slung over the back of the couch, fingers a breath away from the nape of her neck. “Uh,” he says, cheeks flushed, “uh, no reason.”

“Stiles,” says Malia, leaning back to see if he’ll recoil.

He does. “There’s a sore on my stump,” he mutters.

“OK,” says Malia, studying him, “why are you embarrassed?”

“I’m not embarrassed,” Stiles insists. He glances at the kitchen, where her dad’s whistling a tune to himself as he digs through the fridge. She doesn’t remember him doing that before, before the accident, and it makes Malia sad when she thinks about him living in the big, empty house alone. “Uh, do you want to watch something on Netflix? My dad’s not picking me up until 6.”

Malia doesn’t dare dig out the folder with her dad in the next room, so she shrugs. “OK.”

“Anything in particular you want to watch?”

The werecoyote shakes her head. “Whatever you want is fine,” she tells him, drawing her legs up under her, knee brushing Stiles’ stump.

“Why me?” he asks five minutes into an episode of “Parks and Recreation.”

Malia hits the spacebar on his computer. “What do you mean?” she asks, Leslie Knope’s face frozen on the screen.

Stiles hits it again. “You know,” he says, voice low, “why’d you ask me to help you find her?”

“Because I knew you would,” Malia whispers back. That’s half the reason, at any rate.

“Because you knew I’d be curious, or because we - ” Stiles coughs “ - you know?”

“Both.” And she turns up the volume to end the conversation.

Halfway through the episode, Stiles’ hand bumps her knee. “Sorry,” he mutters, rubbing slow circles on the remaining knob of flesh jutting out from his hip.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?”

Stiles pauses mid-rub. “What?”

Her eyes flicker to the hand he has on his stump. “You grimaced. It must be painful.”

“It’s not so bad,” Stiles lies, which Malia knows because Derek’s been teaching her how to listen for heartbeats. It’s not the only thing the werewolves are teaching her.

“Give me your hand,” she commands.

“Why?”

“I can take your pain,” she says. She bites her lip. “At least, I can try. I’ve only ever managed it with dogs at the animal clinic.”

Stiles makes a fist. “You don’t - ”

Malia reaches over and pulls his hand into her lap. She forces him to unfurl his fist, lacing her fingers with his. She squeezes her eyes shut. Now Stiles’ heart is positively hammering, but she makes herself focus on the pain.

“Huh,” she says, opening her eyes. Her veins are dark. “That’s weird.”

“What’s weird?” says Stiles. He looks positively terrified.

“It feels like - it feels like the pain’s coming from your left ankle,” Malia explains, “but you don’t have a left ankle.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Stiles says dryly. He tries - and fails - to wrench his hand away. Quietly, he admits, “Sometimes it feels like my leg is still there. First it’s an itch. Then it’s a dull ache. Then a cramp. Finally - ” he shakes his head. “I bet I sound crazy.”

Whatever Malia’s offloading, it’s worse than a cramp. “No,” she says, “it makes sense.  When I would get cold at Eichen House, I’d rub my arms to warm up. I always expected to feel fur there, even after I accepted my coat was gone.”

They’ve been sitting shoulder-to-shoulder for almost 20 minutes, but Stiles still hasn’t relaxed. “Listen, Malia - ”

“We’re not getting back together,” she cuts in.

Stiles blinks. “That wasn’t - ”

“Yes it was.” Malia exhales as the credits roll on screen. “You really want to know why I asked you?”

He squirms. “Well, yeah.”

She lets go of his hand, shakes her own. “You know what it’s like,” she says finally, “to have everyone think they know what’s best, and forget to ask what you think.”

Stiles rubs his mouth. “Did I ever make you feel like that?” he asks. “Before the bus crash?”

But Mr. Tate is calling from the kitchen, “Stiles, your dad’s here!”

*           *           *

Kira hops off the chair she’s been using as a stepladder and takes a step back. “What do you think?” she asks Lydia, nudging the banshee and pointing to the _WELCOME TO BEACON HILLS HIGH!_ banner.

But Lydia, who’s been taping down sign-in sheets for parent-teacher conferences, doesn’t even look at the banner before declaring, “It’s crooked.”

“OK - ”

Lydia glances up. “You need to raise it another four inches to the left.”

Privately, Kira thinks if the not-quite-straight banner bothers Lydia that much, she should be the one to fix it. But a gaggle of parents has already gathered in the lobby, so the kitsune holds her tongue.

“Can we check in yet?” a woman calls. It’s the third time she’s asked.

“Not until 6!” Kira chirps back. “Sorry, Principal Thomas’ orders.”

He’d been down twice already to ensure everything was going smoothly. The principal is a frequent topic of dinner table conversations at the Yukimuras’ - Ken is not a fan - but tonight Kira has welcomed the intrusion. It’s distracted her from how snippy Lydia’s been.

Like when the banshee presses Kira’s phone into her hand. “Stiles has texted you seven times,” Lydia says matter-of-factly.

Usually, that many texts from Stiles would set off alarm bells in Kira’s head. But tonight she has a different reason to read his messages with dread. When she’d gone by the Stilinskis’ after school, he’d leaned heavily on his crutches and asked if she could do him a favor.

Though, she’s not sure yet if breaking into the school records room on her dad’s key to steal a file really qualifies as “teensy, tiny.”

**STILES: C’mon, Kira, it’s not for me.**

**STILES: Think of Malia.**

**STILES: Doesn’t she deserve to know where she came from?**

**STILES: Kira**

**STILES: K I R A**

**STILES: Pretty please?**

**STILES: I’m sorry I asked. I’ll figure something else out.**

Kira’s still staring at his last text, trying to think up a task that will take her near the office, when Lydia thrusts a piece of paper into the kitsune’s hand. “Coach is double-booked at 7,” she tells Kira. “Can you go find Principal Thomas and see how he wants us to handle it?”

Not to mention neither of them has seen Coach all evening. “Do you think he’ll be in his office?”

Lydia plucks a set of keys - her mom’s - from the pocket of her shirt dress. “That should get you in if he’s still running around.”

“OK,” Kira agrees. She doesn’t find the principal, but she does call Stiles. “The office is empty,” she tells him before he can say hello, before she can lose her nerve.

 _“No,”_ says Stiles, incredulous. “You didn’t.”

“Yes, I did,” says Kira, swallowing the lump in her throat. She glances over her shoulder, but the office attendants are elsewhere, occupied with parents wanting to meet their kids’ teachers. She slips into the dusty file room. “Whose record is it you’re after again?”

“Ellen Taylor,” Stiles says. “She would have been the class of ’94, but I don’t think she graduated from Beacon Hills.”

“OK,” says Kira, walking between stack after stack of boxes. “What are you and Scott - ”

“Kira,” he interrupts. “Focus.”

“Right,” she says, doing some quick mental math. If Malia’s mother would have graduated with the class of 1994, she would have started at the school in 1991. She pulls down the 1991-2 box and opens it. Out crawls a spindly-legged spider. A startled Kira drops the phone as it scampers off. “Stiles, I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Malia needs our help,” Stiles reminds the kitsune.

Kira bites her lip. “I need to use my phone as a flashlight. I’m just going to put you on - ”

“Don’t put me on speaker,” Stiles cuts in, “and make sure you keep the light pointed down.”

But the only records Kira finds are for a _Taylor, Alan_ and a _Taylor, Jeffrey_. She stuffs them back in the box and turns off the flashlight. “You’re sure she should have graduated in 1995?”

There’s a pause before Stiles admits, “Well, no.”

“She wasn’t a BHHS student in 1991.”

“So try the next year,” Stiles urges. “It’s not a stretch to think - ” he drops his voice _“ - Peter_ went after a freshman or sophomore.”

Kira shudders, but it’s finally in the 1993-4 box that she finds a _Taylor, Eleanor_. She presses the phone to her ear. “Stiles, is it possible she was - ”

She breaks off at the sound of footsteps. “I have to go,” she hisses. She’s taking a hasty photo of Eleanor Taylor’s file when she hears the breaking glass.

Now Kira’s heart is pounding. She heaves the box back onto the shelf and slips out of the record room. “Hello?” she calls tentatively. “Is anyone - ”

The carpet squishes. Kira fumbles her cell phone trying to turn the flashlight on. She has to grope for the lights.

Principal Thomas is slumped, throat slashed, against the copier, blood pooling underfoot.

Kira screams, the overhead lights exploding into a shower of sparks.

*           *           *

Lydia tenses at the sound of heavy footfalls outside her mom’s classroom, where she’s sitting along the back row of cabinets, spine straight, fists clenched tight. What the banshee needs is silence, time to process Principal Thomas’ death, but of course the high school is crawling with cops.

The door creaks open, a pair of black duty shoes just visible amid the lab stools. But it’s only Parrish weaving through the desks. “Lydia?” he calls. “Are you - hey,” he says when he sees her, “your mom’s pretty worried.”

She lifts her mascara-slicked face. “Well?” she says impatiently. “Call it in.”

But he doesn’t reach for his radio. He slides his back down the cabinets and sits cross-legged beside her. “Why are you hiding, Lydia?”

“No reason,” she lies, palms stinging. She’s certain she’s cutting little half-moons into them with her nails, but right now, it’s keeping her grounded.

“Lydia.”

A long minute passes. “I knew,” she admits finally. “All night, I knew something bad was about to happen. I just thought - ” Lydia breaks off, shaking her head.

“What did you think, Lydia?” Parrish prompts.

 _Don’t scream._ “I thought if I could hold it back, no one would die,” she tells him. “It didn’t work.”

“No.” She thinks that’ll be it, he’ll radio in to let the others know he’s found her, steer her back to her anxious mother. Instead, his fingertips brush her elbow. “Hey, quit that,” Parrish says gently, trying to get her to relax her hands, “or you’ll draw - ”

Lydia already has.

“ - blood,” he finishes weakly, staring at her mangled palms. “Did you do this?”

Lydia nods.

He’s holding her thin wrist with two fingers. “Why?”

She shrugs. “I was trying to stay grounded,” she says in small voice, droplets of blood speckling her palm.

“OK,” says Parrish, nodding once. “OK.” He rises to his feet. “This is a chemistry classroom,” he says, more to himself than the banshee, “surely there’s a first aid kit.”

“It’s in the top drawer of the desk,” Lydia says without thinking. “Behind the - ”

“Got it.”

“You don’t have to,” Lydia tells Parrish when he sits back down beside her and reaches for her hand. “I can - ”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he interjects, almost fumbling an antiseptic wipe when he tries to tear into the little packet. He ends up having to rip into it with his teeth. Ruefully, Parrish adds, “I really do know what I’m doing.”

“I trust you,” Lydia whispers, resting her knuckles on his knee. She bites her lip as he dabs at the four little cuts on her left hand.

Parrish notices, of course. “I know, I know,” he says apologetically. “It stings.” He sizes up two bandages, decides the larger one is right for the task, and peels back the tabs. “Though, I have to say, you’re a better patient than half the guys in the First. Most of them were more interested in taking their chances with sand and dirt than letting anyone swab a cut.”

Lydia checks his handiwork as he pulls her other hand into his lap. “Were you a medic?”

Fingers pause, green eyes stare at her. “You know I wasn’t.” His tongue flicks across his upper lip. “But we all had to know a little. You never knew how long it would take a medic to get there. That’s why the Army issues every soldier a tourniquet - ” Parrish flushes. “Sorry.”

He’s done bandaging. Rather than withdraw her hand from his lap, Lydia laces her fingers with his. “It’s OK,” she tells him. “I like it when you tell me about your life before Beacon Hills.”

They’re still holding hands. Parrish clears his throat. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Lydia freezes. “About?” she asks, though the pit in her stomach makes her certain she already knows.

Sure enough, he hesitates before he says, “Meredith.”

Her blood runs as cold as it had in the Stilinskis’ kitchen when she’d touched Stiles’ arm. “You went to Eichen House,” she says accusingly, wrenching her hand away so quickly the bandage peels back.

“Lydia - ” he tries, but she’s already on her feet.

“I trusted you,” she declares, pacing. “Do you think I would have come to you for help if I didn’t?”

“No, I - ” Parrish swallows. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh? You’re sorry?” Lydia snorts. “Yet you did the one thing I asked you _not_ to do.”

He rises, too. “I don’t get it, Lydia. Why don’t you want me to look into what happened to the Walkers? Meredith’s like you, and whoever killed her family is still - ”

“No,” Lydia says with absolutely certainty. “No.”

“Lydia - ”

“Meredith killed her family.” The banshee watches as recognition flickers across his handsome face. It isn’t Parrish’s first time hearing this. _“Meredith.”_

He shakes his head. “C’mon, Lydia, you don’t believe - ”

She takes a step forward, voice low. “I didn’t realize it when you first told me, but then again, I was only 10 when it happened. Still, it was all over the news - and I was old enough to eavesdrop when my dad would relay courthouse gossip in hushed whispers to my mom. No one wanted to bring charges against the teenage girl who woke up from brain surgery hearing voices. Meredith was committed to Eichen House, and that was the end of the investigation.”

“OK,” says Parrish, raking a hand through his hair. He rests it on his hip. “OK, so maybe - even if Meredith did kill her family, Lydia, it’s not - that doesn’t mean - ”

Before Parrish can finish, the door opens with a bang. Scott’s dad is wearing a sour expression. “Parrish!” he barks. “What are you - ”

The deputy’s hand is on his radio. “Just found her, sir,” he lies. “I was about to call it in.”

Agent McCall is already steering her out of the classroom, grip tight on her arm. “Nope,” he tells her when she tries to squirm away. “You owe me a statement.”

Parrish jogs to catch up with him. “Sir, Lydia didn’t see - ”

McCall turns on him, forcing Lydia to whip around also. Snidely, he asks, “So which was it? Did you just find her, or did you have time to question her?” He glares at Parrish. “Find your boss. I don’t have any use for either of you.”

Parrish scurries off, but not without a backward glance at Lydia. She hates the pity etched on his face. Finally, once he’s rounded the corner, Rafe releases her. “I’ve had a dozen teachers tell me you were at the welcome table all night, checking parents in. If that’s true, why’d you take off when Kira found Principal Thomas?”

“Because I was scared?” Lydia says waspishly, rubbing her wrist. “I’m 17. You need my mom’s permission to ask me any questions.” And she marches right back into the chemistry classroom.

_Don’t scream don’t scream don’t scream._

*           *           *

By the time Kira arrives, Stiles has been watching Scott pace for the better part of the hour. The alpha is eager to get to the high school, eager to discuss this latest murder with Derek and the sheriff, eager to be relieved of his Stiles-sitting duties. Scott kisses Kira on the cheek and tells her he’ll be back later without a backward glance at Stiles.

Not that Stiles blames his best friend, now pulling out of the Stilinskis’ drive in Kira’s new Corolla. It’s not like he isn’t miserable, too, stuck at home with an admonishment to do his homework as his dad investigates yet another high-profile murder. Stiles assumes it’s even worse if you’re an alpha werewolf actually capable of offering assistance.

“Sorry,” he tells Kira, drumming his pencil eraser against his calculus book. He can’t quite bring himself to care about derivatives when another darach could very well be on the loose. “I’m sure you’d rather - hey, what’s wrong?”

The kitsune’s lower lip trembles. “I - ”

And she chokes out a sob. Clumsily, Stiles rises from the couch and slings an arm around Kira’s shoulders, steering her unsteadily to the seat next to him. “Hey, hey, hey,” he says in (what he hopes is) a soothing voice. “What’s wrong? You’re - ”

Kira buries her face in Stiles’ chest, crying noisily. At a loss, he tentatively pats her back. “I can’t do it,” she declares, voice muffled by his cotton t-shirt. “I’m not like you and Scott.”

“What d’you mean?” Stiles asks, dumbstruck. How could he be so stupid? He’d been so irritated with his dad - the sheriff insisted Scott stay with Stiles until someone else got to the house - he’d been the one to suggest Kira, totally ignoring she might be upset after her gruesome discovery.

She shakes her head. “I want to help - ” she hiccoughs “ - but it’s too much, Stiles, it’s too - ”

“C’mon,” Stiles interrupts pleadingly, “don’t cry, Kira, it’s OK. You’re OK. I’m sorry I sent you to the office. I shouldn’t have asked you to go snooping. This is my fault.”

All this does is make Kira cry harder. He’d told Lydia once, head over heels for the redhead, she was beautiful when she cried. But in this moment, the kitsune isn’t. Kira chokes back sobs, snot dripping from her nose onto Stiles’ shirt, cheek pressed to his collarbone. It’s pretty gross, if he’s being honest.

Stiles waits until her sobs fade to sniffles. “Uh, you want to talk about it?” It’s reflexive: he adds, “Sorry.”

Her hair tickles his chin as she rests her head on his shoulder. “I should be apologizing,” Kira tells him. “After everything you and Scott have been through, it’s silly that a body has me this upset.”

“No, no,” Stiles assures her, “it’s totally normal, Kira.” _We’re the weird ones. We’re the ones that have been so desensitized to death._ His stump, rubbed raw beneath his socket, aches, and he tries to kick his prosthesis into a more comfortable position. He grimaces.

Kira notices. “You can take it off,” she says, “if it’ll make you more comfortable.”

But when he tries to stand, she’s still holding onto his shirt. “Kira,” he says gently, wrapping his long fingers around her slim wrists, “I’m going to need you to let go.”

“Right,” the kitsune says, sniffing snot back up her nose before she lifts her head.

Stiles makes a point not to look at the wet spot on his chest. He thinks he might gag. But that’s a thought he keeps to himself. He reaches for his crutches. “Uh, I’m just going to go to my room - ”

“I’ll go with you.”

 _I’d prefer you didn’t._ “You don’t have to,” Stiles insists. It takes him three tries to lift himself off the sofa. He shifts his weight to his right leg.

Eyes downcast, Kira mumbles, “I don’t want to be alone.”

Stiles blinks. Then he sits back down, trying to put a little more distance in between them. “OK,” he says finally. “OK, but I need you to look away, then.” It sounds like a reasonable request. He needs to yank his shorts up. She doesn’t need to know the real reason: he doesn’t want anyone to see the sores dotting his stump.

To his relief, the kitsune scoots down the couch. But he’s no sooner flipped up his gym shorts before she’s glancing back over her shoulder and asking, “How does it feel?”

Stiles freezes. “What, wearing my leg?”

Kira nods.

His mouth is suddenly very dry. He blurts the first thing that comes to mind. “It’s really heavy.”

“Heavy?”

“And warm,” Stiles says, wincing as he slides his prosthesis off. He peels back the cotton socks he’d added midday in a desperate attempt to cushion his stump, which is grey and sweat-damp.

“Heavy and warm,” Kira repeats. She sounds skeptical.

Stiles flushes. “Yeah, it’s - ” he licks his lips “ - sort of clunky.”

“Is it uncomfortable?”

“No,” Stiles lies because well, it isn’t _supposed_ to be. That’s what Bridget keeps telling him. He doesn’t believe her. He clears his throat as he tugs his gym shorts back down. “I’m done.”

He’s not expecting Kira to take it as an invitation to snuggle up against him. “OK,” she says, and she closes her eyes. “I’m sorry it hurts.”

“How’d - ”

“Stiles.”

He doesn’t say anything, just reaches for the old orange-and-blue afghan and drapes it over her. Stiles remembers complaining to his mother as she’d crocheted it that it was the wrong shade of orange. It had been the last blanket she made before she got sick.

“Thanks,” Kira says.

Before he can reach for the light, the living room goes dark. “Show off,” he tells the kitsune, her breath hot on his neck as she drifts off.

It takes Stiles much longer to fall asleep.

*           *           *

Derek finally gets tired of Scott’s toe-tapping and growls, _“What?”_

“I didn’t say anything,” the alpha insists, flattening himself against the wall as an orderly passes with a sheet-covered gurney.

Once he’s out of earshot, Derek hisses, “You want to.”

“No I - ” Scott breaks off as the lights flicker overhead. He sighs. “Can I ask you a question?”

Derek’s _got_ to stop hanging out with teenagers. “You just did,” he whispers back, a little aggressively.

“You’ve been taking Stiles to PT.”

 _Not a question, Scott._ But Derek nods curtly.

Scott tugs on his ear. “Uh, have you noticed kind of a - ”

“Yes.”

The alpha frowns. “How’d you know - ”

“Because his prosthesis _is_ noisy,” Derek says with a shrug. “Learn to tune it out.”

Scott squirms. “What if I - ”

“You can.”

“But - ”

“OK, Scott. Ask Stiles to stop wearing his new leg. See how it goes.” _I dare you._ Derek arches his eyebrows.

The metal door to the morgue swings open. Derek can hear the sheriff telling his two deputies to take a break. The woman protests, but John shuffles her off. Then he comes around the corner for them. “We don’t have long,” he says, jerking his chin at Scott. “Your dad’s at the courthouse.”

Surprised, Derek asks, “He’s trying to turn a dead high school principal into a federal case?”

The haggard sheriff exhales slowly. “I mean, Judge Bowman agreed Sanders was likely killed in commission of a kidnapping.” He holds the door open for the two werewolves. “So whatever you can give me, I’ll take.”

Scott mutters, “Sorry.”

John slings an arm around the alpha’s shoulders. “Not your fault, son.”

It’s not lost on Derek that Scott trusts this man more than his own father. He circles the exam table. Principal Thomas’ neck gapes open, a silent scream frozen on his lips. “Kira found him?” The sheriff nods. “Where was Lydia?”

“She and Kira were helping check parents in,” Scott supplies. “You know, pointing them down the right hallway, that kind of thing.”

“What was Kira doing in the principal’s office?” Derek breathes in deeply. Coppery blood clings to his nostrils. There’s another smell, too.

Scott frowns. “She didn’t say,” he says, eyes trained away from the body. Sometimes Derek forgets how young the pack is. He grabs the back of Scott’s neck, forces him to look at the dead principal.

“Smell that?” Derek asks.

The young alpha looks like he’s about to gag. “Yes,” he chokes.

Derek swats at Scott. “Not the blood, dumbass. Force yourself to isolate it. Can you smell the magic?”

Scott coughs. “It smells - it smells like Deaton’s when he reinforces the mountain ash barrier.”

“What else?”

“Dirt?” Scott guesses. But before Derek can sniff to confirm, John’s seizing them by their collars and stuffing them both into a nearby closet. They both press against the door, glimpsing Scott’s dad through the little window.

The tall FBI agent is flanked by a stern-faced man in his 60s and the Beacon Hills mayor. “Here you go,” Rafe says triumphantly, wrinkling a piece of paper as he shoves it into the sheriff’s hand. “I think we’re all in agreement this body is headed over to Enloe.”

The sheriff’s back is to Derek, but the werewolf can guess his expression: two fingers scratching his chin, same way Stiles does, like father, like son. “What I don’t get,” John says evenly, and he hands the court order back to Rafe, “is where you have jurisdiction in my town.”

“John,” says the mayor, whom Derek recognizes from campaign mailers, “can’t you see it’s for the best?”

“Agree to disagree,” the sheriff grunts.

The metal doors swing open. It’s a pair of suits and the female deputy John had waved away earlier, in lockstep. “Sheriff - ”

There’s a loud zip as the FBI agents close the body bag. “Do you have any idea what you’re dealing with?” the sheriff asks.

“Do you?” Rafe fires back. Next to Derek, Scott makes a fist.

 _“No,”_ the older werewolf mouths. The last thing the sheriff needs is for Rafe to start asking questions about Scott’s involvement.

Sure enough, the FBI agent waits until the others are out of earshot and asks John, “Think it’s curious my son’s girlfriend found the body?”

“Nope,” the sheriff says, not quietly. “Mostly, worried about the impact all this death has on a bunch of teenagers.”

There’s paperwork for Stiles’ dad to fill out. Finally, a red-faced John retrieves the werewolves from the closet. “So what?” the sheriff asks. “We’re dealing with another darach?”

“Not necessarily - ” Derek starts, then notices Scott’s nose is in the air. “What is it?”

Scott shakes his head. “I’m not sure. It’s - ” he bites his lip. “OK, so Dad used to bring my mom flowers, right? Every time he fucked up - which was often - he’d bring home a bouquet. But then they’d wilt, and he’d be weird about her throwing them away. So there would just be half-dead flowers sitting in water in the kitchen for, like, a week. _That’s_ what it smells like.”

The sheriff immediately looks to Derek for confirmation. But no matter how hard he sniffs, he can’t smell what Scott’s talking about. He’s about to shrug when he remembers all the scents Peter had rattled off a few nights earlier as he’d nosed at Lydia. “You smell wilted flowers?”

Scott nods.

John’s looking at Derek expectantly. “You’re picking up on it, too?”

The older werewolf shakes his head. “No,” he says honestly, “but Scott’s the alpha. He has the better nose.”

“But you’re - ”

Derek cuts the sheriff off with a shake of his head. “No.”

John rubs his mouth. “So I’m looking for a magical florist who hated Principal Thomas? OK, OK. I have to go back to the crime scene. They can take the body to Butte County, but I’d like to see them move the whole high school. Can one of you - ”

“I can stay with him, Sheriff,” Derek offers.

“No.”

Derek turns to Scott. “No?”

“Kira’s over there,” Scott says. “I want to check on her, too.”

 _Mostly, worried about the impact all this death has on a bunch of teenagers._ “Up to you, Sheriff,” Derek says with a shrug.

“You’re sure you don’t mind?” John asks Scott. The alpha shakes his head. “He gets a Percocet before bed, but that’s it. It’s - ”

“In the safe in your office, I know,” says Scott. He leaves.

Derek hasn’t been alone with the sheriff since that day at the hospital when they’d talked about his dad. The werewolf thinks he should say something, about the case, about Stiles, but before he can think of anything, John smiles ruefully. “I miss the days when Stiles sneaking out was my biggest worry.”

Derek settles on, “Bridget’s happy with his progress.”

“I’ll be happier when he doesn’t need the walker.”

Derek nods. So will he. “Sheriff.”

“Call me John,” he reminds the werewolf, leaving Derek alone in the chilly morgue.

*           *           *

Here’s what Scott is expecting to find when he lets himself into the Stilinskis’ house shortly after midnight: Stiles asleep in his bedroom, and Kira waiting up in the living room.

Instead, he finds the pair passed out on the couch, Kira using Stiles as pillow, afghan tucked tight around them. Beams of moonlight flood in through the blinds, illuminating Stiles’ prosthesis, waist-high and leaning against the coffee table.

Scott clears his throat.

All this does is make Kira burrow _closer_ to Stiles, who responds with a little snore. Scott stalks over to the light switch and announces. “I’m back.”

Stiles jerks awake mid-snort. “Scott,” he mumbles.

Kira blinks back sleep. “Hey,” she says, yawning, “did you - ”

Scott ignores her. “Stiles, can we talk?” he grits.

At least his best friend has the good sense to look guilty. “Sure, buddy,” Stiles says, reaching for his walker. He tries once, twice to pull himself off the old couch. Impatient, Scott hauls Stiles up. “Uh, my room, or - ”

“That’s fine,” Scott bites. His nostrils flare.

Kira grabs his arm. “Scott,” she says, “we just fell asleep, that’s - ”

He rounds on the kitsune. “I don’t know what’s going on between the two of you,” Scott growls, “but it ends, OK? It ends, or - ” he stabs the air between them with his finger “ - we do.”

He’s not expecting Kira’s fierce glare. “Don’t tell me what to do,” she says, crossing her arms. “If you don’t want me to be friends with Stiles - ”

 _“Friends,”_ Scott spits. “Do you cuddle like that with all your friends?”

Stiles is hovering awkwardly in the kitchen. “C’mon, Scott, Kira’s not interested in me,” he says. “Nothing - ” the lights flicker “ - happened.”

His heartbeat is erratic, but Scott can’t tell if it’s because Stiles is lying or just nervous. “Oh yeah?” Scott says. “Then why am I the one that feels like the third - ”

The living room lamp is the first to explode, followed by the kitchen light. Even the appliances blip out.

 _“Oops,”_ says Kira.

Stiles groans. “The breaker - ”

“I’ll do it,” Scott says, and he pushes past Stiles on his way to the electrical box.

For some reason, Stiles follows him. “Hey, Scott, listen, the labels - ”

“I said I’d do it!” Scott snaps, storming out to the garage. He closes his eyes, switches to night vision.

But it doesn’t help him make sense of the mislabeled switches. _“Stiles,”_ he hollers, “this doesn’t make any - ”

Stiles materializes in the doorway. “I tried to tell you,” he says hotly, navigating the wheelchair ramp unsteadily on his walker, “they’re not - ”

He eats it, _hard,_ crashing onto the concrete before Scott can get over to him. Scott skids to a stop on his knees. “Stiles, Stiles, are you - ”

Stiles is grimacing, but he waves Scott away. “Get the damn lights, will you? Try the one that’s labeled ‘laundry room.’”

Scott does. Nothing happens. “D’you think Kira blew out power to the whole - ”

“Nah,” says Stiles, finally sitting up. Scott rights his friend’s walker.

But instead of helping Stiles up, Scott takes a seat next to his friend on the garage floor. “I’m sorry,” he says after a long pause. “I don’t know why it bugs me so much. I know there’s nothing going on between you and Kira.”

Though Stiles tries to hide it, his sniffle is unmistakable. “’Course there isn’t,” he mutters. “Good God, Scott, you’re the freaking alpha. She doesn’t like me. Why would she? She has you.”

“Stiles - ”

“Why, Scott?” Stiles wants to know. “I thought we were friends. I thought we were _brothers._ You told me - you said you’d do what you had to. But you left me under that bus to die.”

Scott’s mouth is dry. “No, no,” he says, shaking his head. “Stiles, that’s not what - ”

“Then tell me, Scott,” Stiles says desperately, “why not? Why didn’t you bite me? I wouldn’t - I know I wouldn’t make a very good werewolf. I’m impulsive, I - ”

“Stiles, you said no.”

_“What?”_

Scott’s stomach churns. “I swear, Stiles, ask Derek if you don’t believe me. I wanted to bite you. I wanted to bite you when you were under the bus. Hell, I even wanted to bite you when you were in the hospital, after they amputated your leg. It made me _sick,_ Stiles, not to do everything I could for you. But you - ”

“I said no,” Stiles says in a small voice. His shoulders start to quake, but he tosses off the arm Scott tries to throw around him. “I said no?”

“You said no,” Scott confirms. “Shit, Stiles, I thought I was doing - ”

Stiles is wiping tears from his eyes. “Fuck, all this time - I’ve been blaming you, Scotty, I’ve been so mad at - I thought you must really not have wanted me in your pack if you’d rather I die than bite me.”

This time, Scott doesn’t let Stiles push his arm away, smashing his face into the crook of Stiles’ neck. His best friend smells like Tide and anxiety and faintly of Kira. “I’m so glad you didn’t die,” Scott mumbles.

“I’m not sure I am.”

Scott lets go of Stiles. “Don’t say that,” he admonishes.

Suddenly, Stiles’ tone is sharp and demanding. “Why not?” he wants to know. “Everyone knows I gave up. This is hard, Scott. Dragging yourself around on a walker everyday? Watching your dad pity you and your friends pity you and - ” he breaks off. “What about now? Would you bite me now?”

It’s with a heavy heart Scott has to tell Stiles, “No.”

Even in the dark, Stiles’ glare is unmistakable. “What happened to, ‘It made me sick not to do everything I could for you,’ huh?”

“Derek says - ”

“I don’t give a _rip_ what Derek says!” Stiles shouts, words reverberating through the garage. “I want my old life back, I want to be part of the pack again - ”

“But Stiles,” Scott insists, “you _are_ part of the pack - ”

Stiles makes a _pooh-pooh_ noise with his mouth. “Bullshit,” he declares. “I saw how you looked at me when I saved all of your asses from the Calaveras. You didn’t want me - ”

 _“To get hurt,”_ Scott cuts in. “I didn’t want you _to get hurt.”_

“I always hurt now,” Stiles rages, “always, Scott, every day, from the moment I wake up to the moment I go to bed. Actually, scratch that, because I wake up in the night and it _literally_ feels like someone set me on fire, that’s how much it hurts.”

It’s a terrible moment for all the lights to come back on, but Scott hears Kira’s excited little, “Oh!” from inside as the single bulb in the garage illuminates. Stiles is red-faced, choking back sobs, right leg stretched out in front of him. But the worst is his stump, dotted with sores, poking out of his gym shorts.

Scott fumbles. “Stiles - ”

“No!” Stiles says, recoiling when Scott reaches for it. “I don’t need - ”

“Yes, you do,” Kira calls from the doorway. Both boys’ heads snap up at the sound of the kitsune’s voice. She bites her lip, then takes a tentative step closer. “You’re always saying how much you miss Scott, how you miss the way things - ”

Stiles shakes his head, sucking snot up through his nose. “No,” he says bitterly, “I was wrong. I can’t - there’s no going - ”

Scott holds up a hand to tell Kira not to come any closer. “Stiles, listen to me. I was going to tell you, Derek thinks there’s a reason _you_ didn’t want to be a werewolf. I don’t know what it is yet, but we’ll figure it out, OK? We’ll figure it out together.”

And Scott touches Stiles’ stump for the first time, fingers brushing the blisters he doubts should be there, pain that’s almost unbearable for a human splintering to a dull ache as Stiles slumps against the alpha. “Yeah, OK,” he says, voice muffled by Scott’s shirt.

When Stiles finally lifts his head, it’s to croak, “Hey, you did it!” to Kira, who’s been holding back this whole time.

It’s Scott’s cue to fold the kitsune into the many-armed hug. He tucks her long, black hair behind her ear and whispers, “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” she says softly.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he insists. Scott nudges Stiles. “C’mon,” he says, “let’s get you to bed.”

Kira starts to reach for Stiles’ walker, but Scott shakes his head. He pulls Stiles’ arm across his shoulders and they walk back into the house, together.

*           *           *

Melissa always forgets John has the tattoo, faded green ink just visible beneath his rucked-up shirtsleeve as he tinkers beneath the Jeep’s hood. He’s so absorbed in whatever he’s doing that he doesn’t notice her standing right behind him. He almost brains himself when she clears her throat.

“Melissa,” he says, wiping first his hands, then his forehead with a grimy rag. “Uh, I think Scott’s still asleep. I can - ”

“We need to talk,” she interrupts, crossing her arms. She takes a deep breath. “This has gone on long enough.”

The jerk of John’s chin is slow, thoughtful. “OK,” he agrees, nodding again. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t want to wake the boys.”

“Right,” John mutters. “Well, then, do you mind if - ” he trails off, picking up the wrench again and passing it from hand to hand. His Adam’s apple bobs.

“Be my guest,” Melissa says, and before she can stop herself she adds, “but I thought you were going to sell the Jeep.” She won’t be sorry to see the other side of Stiles’ beloved car, either. It’s not like her contempt for it is a secret. She’d called John, furious, on Stiles’ 16th birthday when Scott’s response to _and where do you think you’re going in that death trap_ had been, “Relax, the sheriff let me ride with them when he was teaching Stiles to drive.”

(She hadn’t calmed down when the sheriff admitted he’d taught Scott, too.)

John’s elbow-deep in the dirty engine again. “Yeah, well,” he says, grimacing as he withdraws a fraying hose, “eventually Stiles is going to want to drive again, and I won’t have a car if he takes the Camry.”

“You’ll still have your cruiser,” Melissa says reasonably. “Do you really need a second - ”

“Melissa.”

“I don’t like that _Melissa.”_

John sighs. He starts to dab at the beads of sweat on his forehead with the towel, must realize just how greasy it is, and uses the hem of his shirt instead. “I’m not going to win next month,” he says gruffly.

She blinks. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not being ridiculous,” he says, yanking his shirt back down with one hand. “For the first time in months, I’m being practical. And this car - ” he jabs a finger at the Jeep’s engine “ - isn’t going to make it to Ohio without some _serious_ maintenance.”

“Ohio?” Melissa repeats. _“Ohio?”_

“You know my sister lives there,” he says finally.

Melissa remembers a large woman with John’s chin clasping her hands at the funeral. _“So?”_ she demands, crossing her arms. She wonders where this sister was the three months Stiles was in the hospital.

“So she’s offered to put us up for a few months,” John says. “Denise’s husband’s a firefighter in Lakewood, he’ll be able to help me find - ”

“You have a job,” Melissa reminds the sheriff. “Here.”

The sheriff snorts. “A job I have to win a popular vote to keep.”

Melissa throws up her hands in exasperation. “So get out there!” she tells him. “Campaign! You can - ”

“I can what, Melissa?” John challenges. “Tell me what I ought to be doing to win this election. Though I have to say, political consulting is new. Usually it’s unsolicited parenting advice you’re offering.”

She glares at him. “How’s this for some unsolicited parenting advice? You want to drag Stiles to Ohio? You want to pull him away from school and friends and therapy? Great idea, John. Really - ”

“He can’t keep running with werewolves,” John interjects. “It’s not right, Melissa, it’s not natural, it’s not - ”

She slaps him.

_She slaps him._

She’s done it before, once, in a hospital room quiet save for Scott’s wheezing, when John had been blind drunk. She’d told him to sober up, and when they talked again three weeks later he’d told her about the AA meetings, Mondays and Wednesdays, could she watch Stiles?

 _“My son’s a werewolf,”_ she hisses.

There’s a red mark rising on John’s cheek. “I know, I know. I didn’t mean - ”

“You meant Scott,” Melissa says, tone deadly. “You want to take Stiles away from Scott.”

“C’mon, Melissa,” he pleads. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“You want to take Stiles _away from Scott,”_ she repeats. Melissa shakes her head. “I can’t believe - after everything, all we’ve - ”

She’s so angry she’s shaking.

“Fine,” she tells him. _“Fine._ Take Stiles to Ohio. See how that goes. Because if I had to guess, Sheriff, I think he’ll be sleeping in my guestroom before you can say ‘Cleveland.’”

“He’s not your son,” John spits.

_“He’s as good as.”_

The worst part is Melissa’s saying it to the father she’d always wished Scott had.

*           *           *

A kid named Damien holds the door for Stiles after class. “Thanks, man,” says Stiles, planting his prosthetic foot a few inches in front of him and taking a tentative step forward, “but I don’t want to make you late.” The still-healing sore on his stump twinges.

Damien doesn’t notice Stiles’ wince. “Hey, it’s the least I can do,” he says cheerfully. “You’re the only one at this school who doesn’t think misgendering me is _hilarious.”_ He rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, well, fuck them,” says Stiles, gripping his walker as he takes another step. “Their lives must be pretty pathetic if they’re that worried about what pronouns you use.”

Damien smiles, letting the door close now that Stiles has limped through it. “At any rate,” he says, “thanks for using the right ones.”

Stiles shrugs. “Literally the least _I_ can do, dude.”

“You seem way too put together to be here,” Damien says. “You know, not a delinquent, not a head case - ”

Stiles snorts. “I wouldn’t go that far,” he says, remembering all too well his meltdown in front of Scott and Kira the night before. “I’m actually supposed to go see the school shrink right now.”

“Yeah?” Damien says. “She’s actually pretty good. She led my group therapy at Eichen House - ”

“Eichen House?” Stiles interrupts. “You’re not talking about Morrell, are you?”

Damien blinks. “You know her?”

Stiles swallows. “Yeah,” he mutters, “I know her.”

Damien’s still following him, even though Stiles knows the other teen has biology next and that classroom is in the opposite direction. “Oh, right. She used to be at the main high school, didn’t she?”

“Uh, yeah,” says Stiles. They come to a stop outside the guidance office. “You know, for the record, you seem way too put together to be here, too.”

Damien shoves his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, well, my mom has to sign off before I can go back to BHHS, and she’s made it pretty clear that’s not gonna happen unless I put on a dress and start answering to Deanne again.” He clears his throat. “Have fun in therapy.”

The warning bell trills.

“Remind yourself of this the next time you think your dad’s being unreasonable,” Stiles mutters, dropping into a chair to wait.

“What was that, Stiles?” Ms. Morrell asks, long hair falling like curtains on either side of her face. She holds open her office door as Stiles struggles to his feet.

“You’re everywhere,” Stiles complains.

He gets a vague, infuriating smile. “I’ve actually been here almost a year,” she tells him. “Well, Mondays and Tuesdays at any rate. The rest of the week I’m at - ”

“I know,” Stiles interrupts. “Thanks for, you know, not putting me down.”

“You’re welcome,” Morrell says. Her eyes narrow. “Or are you?”

“Heard about the overdose, did you?”

“Mmm,” says Morrell, “I have to say, Stiles, it caught me off-guard.”

“Did it?” Stiles counters. He echoes Crystal, the hospital counselor, “‘No one’s blaming you, Stiles.’”

“Not even Lydia? She found you, didn’t she?”

Stiles’ cheeks burn. “Yeah, OK,” he mutters, “maybe Lydia.”

“What about Scott?”

Stiles shakes his head. “No,” he says quickly, “I think he feels too guilty to hold it against me.”

“Walk me through what happened that day,” Morrell commands.

Stiles nods. “Uh, I had a panic attack. At school. It was after - after I saw the memorial for the other guys. You know - ” his eyes dart up “ - the ones who didn’t make it off the bus.”

“How did that make you feel?”

“How do you think it made me feel?” Stiles wets his mouth with his tongue. “It made me feel like I had no right to complain, about my leg, or the pain, or - ” he breaks off. “You’re going to ask why I went home and swallowed a fistful of pills, then, aren’t you?”

“No,” says Morrell, “I’m going to ask you what happened next.”

“I just told you. I went home and swallowed a fistful of pills.” Stiles shrugs.

“Except that’s not what happened, is it, Stiles?”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

“What _really_ happened, Stiles?”

“I didn’t - I didn’t take them all at once,” Stiles says after a minute. “It was two when I got home and two an hour later and two - ” he bites his lip “ - more when Dad called to yell at me for getting suspended.” Morrell is sitting forward with her hands clasped. “It didn’t matter how many I took. It still hurt. So I took the rest of the bottle. I regretted it immediately. I went into the bathroom to make myself puke. I was going to call Derek once I had. But before I could, I tripped and hit my head.” Stiles rubs his temple, where a thin scar now snakes from his right eyebrow.

“Why Derek?”

“He was home, he’d offered to come by if I needed him.” Stiles shrugs again.

“Any other reason?” Morrell’s eyes bore into him.

“Yeah,” Stiles admits. “I knew he would - he would - ”

_He’d understand._

“Stiles.”

He settles on, “I knew Derek would be discreet. He wouldn’t turn it into a suicide attempt.”

“Was it?”

Stiles sets his jaw. “What are you going to do if I say yes?” Morrell’s face remains impassive. “I didn’t want to die.”

“Did you want to live?”

“No,” Stiles says. He’s surprised when Morrell picks up her pen. “I thought you did your notes after a session. Or is that only if I don’t say anything worrisome?”

“Do you think I should find anything you’ve said particularly worrisome?”

Stiles stares at her. “I just told you I didn’t want to live.”

“You also told me you didn’t want to die,” Morrell points out. She slides the paper across the desk toward him. “Here.”

Stiles doesn’t take it. “What is this?” he asks, suspicious.

“My signature on the bottom of the form you need to go back to the high school,” Morrell replies. “When you’re ready, Stiles, you can take it to your father and schedule a parent-teacher conference with Principal Thomas.”

“So it’s a get out of jail free card?”

Morrell smiles. Or maybe it’s a smirk. Yep, definitely a smirk. “Really, Stiles, jail? Here, where you’re just another screw up, where everyone’s so wrapped up in their own problems they don’t notice yours, far from your friends’ pitying - ”

“Stop,” says Stiles, taking the form and shoving it in his backpack, “you’ve made your point.”

“You mentioned Scott earlier,” Morrell says.

“Correction,” says Stiles, tongue flickering over his chapped lips, _“you_ mentioned Scott earlier. I just said he feels guilty.”

“But why would Scott feel guilty? There was nothing supernatural about the bus crash.”

Stiles stops trying to excise a tiny fleck of dirt from beneath his fingernail. “You’ll have to ask Scott,” he says, irritated.

“I’m asking you, Stiles.”

“Fine,” Stiles grits. “You’re right, Scott doesn’t feel guilty because, as you pointed out, nothing supernatural about a scrawny, sickly human losing a leg.”

“It’s interesting that you’d describe yourself that way, Stiles. Those aren’t the words I’d choose.”

“Oh yeah?” Stiles challenges. “Humor me. What would you pick?”

He’s not expecting her to answer, let alone for her lips to close around the word, _“Powerful.”_

Stiles laughs. His hand falls with a dull thud on his socket. “Right.”

It’s Morrell’s turn to shrug. “Your body may be weak, Stiles, but your spark doesn’t have to be.”

Stiles shakes his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says flatly.

“Yes, you do.”

Stiles leans forward, lacing his fingers together. “I lost my spark,” he tells her. “After - after the nogitsune, I tried. I couldn’t even seal the barrier at Scott’s house.”

In response, Morrell nudges an ugly ceramic pot across her desk at him. “Open it.”

It’s filled with mountain ash. Stiles replaces the lid and slides the pot back. “Does whatever well-meaning student who made you that in art class know you filled it with magic fairy dust?” he deadpans.

“Don’t worry,” Morrell says, opening the pot. She scoops up a handful of mountain ash and lets it fall through her fingers. “I wouldn’t tell your new friend Damien you don’t like his pottery.”

And she throws the pot.

Stiles doesn’t think. He throws out his arm - like _that’ll_ do anything to stop the gritty plume of ash - as Damien’s pot smashes into a thousand pieces.

Much to his surprise, the mountain ash scatters, and it falls in a perfect circle around Morrell’s desk.

“A spark doesn’t burn out,” Morrell hisses, rising from her chair, “it can’t be extinguished, not by the darkness, not by the void, not even by your own despair. It’s not an alpha that makes you an emissary, but the spark. You’ll always have your spark, Stiles. You just have to decide if you want to fan it into flame.”

“What was that?” Stiles demands, heart pounding so fast that the wolves would surely intervene if they could hear it. “What did I just do?”

But Morrell’s entire demeanor changes. “It’s good to see you back on your feet, Stiles,” she says, almost sweetly.

Stiles looks down. He doesn’t remember standing up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in case anyone's wondering, this chapter takes place just shy of six months after the bus crash, in late September of the pack's senior year. I actually keep a really detailed timeline of _when_ all the action is happening - is this something y'all would be interested in me posting to [Tumblr](http://em2mb.tumblr.com/)?
> 
> As always, thanks to my tireless betas, who turned this chapter on a dime. I'll be racing the clock to get the next chapter done in time for Halloween. Wish me luck, and thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Uh, hey,” says Scott, shoving his hands in his pockets. “There wasn’t anyone up front, so I just came back.”
> 
> Stiles tries unsuccessfully to sit up, Derek’s hand still pinning him to the table. “I didn’t know you were coming,” he says at last, tugging his shorts down over his stump.
> 
> “You don’t mind, right?” Scott asks, running his thumb across his bottom lip. There’s something different about Stiles, and that’s when Scott notices the buzzcut. Stiles’ hair had been long when Scott had seen him, albeit in passing, Friday night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, I'm so proud of myself for hitting my self-imposed deadline! HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

“You are - ” Melissa squeezes Scott’s cheeks and gives her son an exaggerated, smacking kiss “ - the best son ever. Kira’s eating with her parents, isn’t she?”

The alpha groans as she takes the to-go sack from him. _“Mom.”_

Melissa beckons him toward the breakroom. “Stiles wasn’t available either, huh?” she calls over her shoulder.

“Can’t I just bring you dinner?” Scott mumbles, trekking dejectedly after her. Of course, his mom is right: he’d called Kira after locking up at the clinic, only to have Noshiko answer.

_“We are eating dinner as a family, Scott,” the older kitsune had informed him. “Kira may call you after she finishes her homework - if it is not too late.”_

Better than Stiles, who hadn’t picked up and didn’t text back until Scott was leaving the Wok N’ Roll.

**STILES: Sorry, man. We just ordered a pizza.**

**SCOTT: You and your dad?**

**SCOTT: Im going to take my mom dinner but maybe after i could bring over borderlands 2?**

**STILES: I’m actually hanging out with a friend. Raincheck?**

His mom is already crunching on an eggroll. _“Scott,”_ she complains, “you forgot silverware.” She does, however, produce two pairs of chopsticks.

“Here,” Scott says, scooting his chair closer and unwrapping the first set, “I can show you. You want to hold it like a pencil - ”

She humors him for about thirty seconds, then goes to fetch a plastic fork. “Someone’s come a long way from that first dinner at the Yukimuras,” she teases as Scott shovels sesame chicken into his mouth. “Hey, before I forget, do you still need a check for your Sac State application, or did you just forge my signature?”

Scott freezes. “You apply online now, Mom,” he mutters.

Melissa pauses, too. “OK, well, do you need my credit card?”

Truth be told, Scott hasn’t even started his application. “Not yet.”

“Scott.”

Eyes downcast, he admits, “I’m still waiting for Stiles to figure out what he wants to do.”

Melissa blots at her mouth with a napkin, then nods once, twice. “Scott,” she says carefully, “is Stiles even going to graduate with your class?”

 _“Yes,”_ Scott insists. “He just has to be back at the high school by semester.”

He doesn’t like the skeptical look on his mom’s face. “And how likely is it that he will be?”

“I’m sure he’ll - ” Scott falters under Melissa’s stern gaze. “I don’t know, OK? He told Kira he has to pass all his classes before Morrell will consider it.”

“And when will he know that?” Melissa wants to know. Scott squirms. “Uh huh, so _after_ the Sac State application is due.”

“C’mon,” says Scott, words out of his mouth before he can stop himself, “would it really be that big of a deal if I deferred a semester?”

Melissa sighs. “Look,” she tells Scott, hand cold on his elbow, “I know rooming together is the dream. But you can’t put off your education. You don’t even know if Stiles will pick Sac State.”

“He’ll want to go where I go,” Scott says confidently, though in reality he’s not so certain. He’d gotten a new video game for his birthday at the beginning of the month that they haven’t played yet because Stiles has been too busy with school and rehab and apparent new friends.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Melissa asks finally.

Scott really doesn’t. He’d always figured Stiles would be the one leading when they applied to college. But when he asked his best friend about it the other day, Stiles sort of shrugged and said he’d think about it. Scott settles on, “Stiles has a lot going on, that’s all.” He forces a smile. “Don’t worry. I won’t miss the application deadline, OK?”

Melissa resumes eating. “What about Kira? Is she still thinking Stanford?”

Scott nods. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “Or, you know, UC Davis.” And he busies himself with his chopsticks before she can react.

“Scott.”

He looks up. “Is it really so bad if we want to go to college in the same city?”

Melissa blows out a breath. “I just don’t think either of you need to be making college decisions based on what the other’s doing,” she says firmly.

“Why not?” Scott challenges. “We’re 18 - ”

“You’re 18.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m just saying,” he says impatiently, “we’ll both be adults.”

Melissa, who’s just taken a big bite of her fried rice, shakes her head. “No.”

Scott glares at his mom. “What do you mean, ‘No?’”

“You,” she says, wagging her finger, “are not an adult. You don’t even do your own laundry.”

“I did last week!”

She snorts. “You mean when you left your dirty cross country uniform in the machine for two days until it molded and I had to shell out for new shorts?”

Scott’s ears are turning red. “Fine,” he grumbles.

Melissa smirks. “I’m glad you and Kira are doing so well,” she says diplomatically. “I just hope you’re being - ”

_“Mom.”_

“ - safe,” she finishes. “And you know if Kira wants to get on the pill, I can get a whole stack of literature for her to give to her parents.”

“Please don’t,” Scott begs, horrified. He’s trying to think of a new topic, any topic, when he hears the ER doors swing open.

“I’m fine,” a man slurs, “fine, fine, ish fi - ” He hiccoughs.

Scott’s pretty sure he knows that voice. He definitely knows the second: “You’re not fine,” Stiles’ dad snaps. “You’re drunk, Coach, and in case you haven’t noticed, injured.”

“Injured?” Finstock replies as Scott’s chopsticks fall to the table. “Injured?”

“You wrapped your car around a tree.”

“I did?”

“Scott, where are you - ”

But the alpha is already on his feet. He tears out of the break room, past the nurses station and into the ambulance bay, where the bleeding lacrosse coach is strapped to a backboard. There’s a long, jagged cut on his forehead.

And a pair of handcuffs keeping him tethered to the gurney.

Scott’s shoulders fall. “No,” he whispers.

But the look on the sheriff’s face tells Scott everything he needs to know.

*           *           *

“I don’t blame you.”

John’s head jerks up at the sound of Finstock’s hoarse voice. The hospital staff has been pumping the boys’ lacrosse coach with IV fluids to sober him up. The sheriff, meanwhile, has kept a careful distance. “Come again?”

“I said - ” Finstock starts to sit up but doesn’t get very far before the cuffs restrict his movement “ - I don’t blame you. I’d want to arrest the guy who ruined my kid’s life, too.”

“I arrested you because you drank too much and wrapped your car around a tree.”

Finstock’s face falls. “That’s not - I wasn’t trying to - I know I screwed up, OK?” He tries to rub his face, but he can’t do that, either. He flops back in frustration. “I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Against his better judgement, John sets down the pen he’s been using to jot notes for the incident report. “What for?”

“How’s he doing, anyway?” Finstock asks. “I keep thinking I’ll see him around - ”

“Stiles is at the alternative school,” John interrupts. “That’s why you haven’t seen him.”

Finstock closes his eyes. “He was hurt the worst, you know. Well, among the ones who lived.”

John already knows this. “He’s doing better,” he says finally. “He’s got his prosthesis now. He’s learning to walk again.”

“Good. Good kid.” Finstock blinks several times, like he’s testing the row of stitches the surgeon just finished suturing. “I didn’t hurt anyone, did I?

“You could have.”

“I know - ” Finstock’s voice cracks “ - but I didn’t, right? C’mon, Sheriff, just tell me if I - ”

“No,” says John. “You didn’t hurt anyone.”

“This time,” Finstock mutters. “I had no business walking off that bus.”

The sheriff crosses his arms. He doesn’t disagree. But he settles, diplomatically, on, “But for some reason, you did. Is this really how you want to honor those boys?”

Finstock’s sniff is unmistakable. “No,” he says after a long pause. Then, thoughtfully, “I’m going to lose my job.”

“Probably.”

Finstock exhales. “I didn’t want to come back, you know. Tried to back out on my contract. But you know what they said to me? ‘Buck up, Coach. There will be other good players.’ _That,”_ he says bitterly, “is what they thought I was worried about.”

John relaxes his shoulders, drums his fingertips absently on the bedside table. “I don’t think you’re more worried about the team’s record than seven dead teenagers, no.”

The pained expression on Finstock’s face tells the sheriff everything he needs to know. “I started drinking after my sister died. Car crash, nine years ago this January. Amy was 19, a freshman at Sac State. She needed to get back to campus, but it was supposed to snow. Mom wanted her to wait until the morning to drive down. I looked out the window and told my kid sister to buck up, it was barely dusting. She didn’t even make it out of Beacon County. Five car pile-up. You probably worked it.”

The sheriff freezes. His spidey sense had tingled when Finstock name-dropped his sister, but the coach’s description of the crash leaves little doubt in John’s mind. “Yeah,” he says, licking his dry mouth, “I remember it.”

“They didn’t even try to extract Amy,” Finstock continues. “She was too badly injured. But I’ll never forget what the deputy who came to the door said: one of his colleagues had crouched among the wreckage and held her hand until she died. A few days after the funeral, Mom went to the station. She wanted to thank this man, whoever he was. But the receptionist told her she’d have to come back. He was out on bereavement leave. Turns out, his wife had died the same night.” The laugh is harsh, caustic. “Can you believe that?”

It’s all John can do to squeak, “I can.”

But Finstock is already shaking his head. “I started drinking. I didn’t stop for two years, and when I did, it was too late to thank anyone. Mom was gone, and I never thought to ask her the officer’s name. Probably isn’t there anymore. I thought of Amy, you know, when Dahler shot up the station last year. My sister had all these wild theories about why bad things always happened in Beacon Hills.”

It’s not the time to tell Finstock how tightly Amy had squeezed John’s hand all those years ago, urging him to leave the mangled Mitsubishi to go be with his dying wife. How she’d known, he’ll never know. “I’m sorry about your sister,” he says gruffly.

But Finstock isn’t listening. “I told myself I wouldn’t start drinking again after the bus crash. But all those funerals? I was drinking again before the week was out.”

Before John can stop himself, he’s confessing, “I hit the bottle pretty hard after my wife died.”

At this, Finstock’s head jerks up. But he returns it to the pillow just as quickly, like he remembers the awkward conversation they’d once had about Stiles’ given name. He clears his throat. “How have you been holding up? Since the bus crash, I mean.”

John wonders just how truthful he should be. He sighs. “Honestly? Not well. It’s hard to watch Stiles struggle. Sometimes - ” he rubs his mouth “ - I think it’s time to adjust my expectations. But then he’ll surprise me, and I think maybe it’ll be OK, he can still go to college, he can still lead a normal life with one leg.”

But Finstock’s no longer listening. He’s passed out in the hospital bed. John turns, and almost runs into Melissa. “Hey,” he manages. He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll just be - ”

“John.”

It’s reflexive. He asks, “How have you been?”

Melissa’s tone is brisk as she checks Finstock’s vitals. “You should know, Scott’s eavesdropping in the waiting room.”

John crosses his arms, stares at his shoes. “I saw him, yeah.”

For a second, it looks like Melissa will match his stance. He’s certainly not expecting her to soften and say, “I’m glad Stiles is doing better. I’ve been worried about him over at the alternative school, away from his friends.”

Her words trigger immediate guilt. “Melissa - ”

“You didn’t tell him. You didn’t tell him you were the one who comforted his sister the night she died.”

Apparently, Scott’s not the only McCall who’s been eavesdropping. “No.”

“Why not?”

The sheriff shrugs. “It didn’t seem like the right time.”

Melissa’s lips are set in a thin line as she glances down at Finstock, now snoring lightly. “What’s going to happen to him? I certainly don’t condone drunk driving - ”

“It’s up to the prosecutor,” John interrupts. “I’m going to ask that he cut a deal, recommend an alcohol treatment program over prison time. But I doubt I’ll have much sway.”

“If you have as little political capital as you say you do, why waste it on this?

He gives her an imploring look. “Because we all make mistakes.” _I did._

Melissa tells him, “I should go. I have other patients.”

But when she doesn’t move, he reminds her, “You forgave me. I put your kid in danger, and you forgave me.”

“This is different.”

“Is it?” John takes a step forward, lips slightly parted. The boys had been 10, or maybe 9 (actually, it had happened during the summer, that in-between time where Stiles would lord his age over the younger Scott), John tasked with watching the pair of them while Melissa worked an overnight. He remembers taking them to the pool, making macaroni. He remembers tucking them into bed, and he remembers pouring himself a double.

What he doesn’t remember is Scott having the asthma attack, Stiles having to call an ambulance because he couldn’t wake his dad. Melissa had left a red mark on John’s cheek at the hospital. But the slap itself he doesn’t recall.

The aftermath, though, that’s crystal clear. Stiles had refused to talk to him. For _months._ And the custody battle. Christ, the custody battle. He doubted Melissa would ever forgive him

Yet she had.

“Yes,” Melissa says firmly, “because what happened then, the asthma attack, that wasn’t your fault.”

John scoffs. “Scott could have died, Melissa.”

“You don’t think I don’t know that?” she snaps. She takes a deep breath. “I didn’t ask. I didn’t even talk to you. I just dropped him off at your house because I knew you’d watch him. I knew you were grieving. I knew you were drinking. And I was so mad at Rafe, I justified it. You were the sheriff, a man of the law. Surely you were in control of it.”

“I wasn’t,” John says miserably. He’s good at reading people. It’s part of his job. But Melissa’s face is expressionless. “You didn’t ask?” She shakes her head. “You’re sure?” She nods.

“I dropped him off. I figured you were home - the cruiser was in the driveway. I knew I’d get asked to work a double, but I was running late. I didn’t have time to go inside. I kissed Scott and told him to listen to you.”

There’s a long pause. “I’m not following you, Melissa. I thought that was just what we did for each other. It doesn’t change the fact I was drunk when I should have been watching the boys.”

“No, it doesn’t,” she agrees.

“Then why’d you forgive me?” _And why won’t you now?_

She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Because you apologized. Because the next time you asked me to watch Stiles, it was so you could go to AA. Because I didn’t have to doubt - ” her voice hitches “ - you cared about my kid. I do, now. I don’t think you see Scott anymore. I think you see the werewolf who ruined your son’s life.”

“No,” John says at once, “no, no, Melissa, you know I think of Scott like a - ”

“Don’t say it.”

“ - a son.”

“Then why’d you duck your head and walk away when you saw him in the waiting room?” Melissa demands.

John scratches his head. “I did?” She nods, arms folded across her chest. “Shit. I wasn’t thinking - ”

“Seems to be a pattern these days,” Melissa says defiantly, lifting her chin. Her eyes, normally so warm, are ice cold.

And so John hightails it out of there to where the teenage alpha is waiting, shoulders slumped. He stops kicking his feet the minute he sees the sheriff.

“How much of that did you hear?” John wants to know.

Scott averts his eyes. “Enough,” he mumbles.

“Your mom seems to think I owe you an apology,” he says, running two fingers along his chin.

“You don’t have to apologize for an asthma attack I had when I was 10,” Scott says. _Nine._

“No, but I’ve leaned on you pretty hard the last couple of months,” the sheriff says. Clearly, this isn’t what Scott was expecting him to say. John takes a seat. “It’s thankless work, taking care of him. Yet you haven’t complained.”

“He’s my best friend,” Scott says with a shrug. “I’ll always take care of him.”

“Admirable, but - ” John sighs. “I haven’t seen you around as much lately. Is everything OK?”

Scott’s no better a liar now than he’s ever been. “Yeah, yeah.” He pauses, but he clearly can’t help himself. “Why would you ask?”

John pats the teenager’s knee. “I know this hasn’t been easy for you.”

“It’s fine,” Scott insists, squirming in the hard plastic chair. “Hey, how’s Coach? Is he - ”

“Get out of here, Scott. Go hang out with Stiles at Derek’s. Be a teenager. Let your mom and me worry about this one, OK?

“Stiles is at the loft?” The sheriff nods. “Oh, uh, I guess I’ll head that way.” Scott’s Adam’s apple bobs. “Thanks, Sheriff.”

“Call me John, Scott.”

“Right,” the alpha says, forcing a smile as he slips his backpack over his shoulder. He clears his throat, like there’s something else he wants to say, but in the end, he turns and leaves.

John probably needs to call Derek, ask the werewolf how long before Stiles wears out his welcome. He’s going to have a mountain of paperwork when he gets back to the station, maybe an angry mayor or pissed-off school board president to contend with. But at that moment, what matters is the half-smile Melissa’s trying to conceal over at the nurses station.

*           *           *

“What about Colorado?” Stiles asks Derek, frowning at his computer screen. He’s been camped out on the werewolf’s couch since PT ended, chewing on a pen and peppering Derek with the occasional non-sequitur. “Have you ever been to Colorado?”

“Uh,” says Derek, gnawing on a pizza crust and trying to remember where his family had gone skiing the Christmas he’d turned 9. He’s pretty sure Park City is in Utah. “No, I don’t think so.”

Stiles finally looks up, blinking once at the pizza box on the coffee table like he’s seeing it for the first time. His eyes narrow. “How do you not know if you’ve been to a state?”

Derek would kill for five minutes with his Uncle Frederick to ask about all those fuzzy memories of early vacations he doesn’t quite remember. “Eat,” he urges Stiles, “or I’m going to finish your half, too.”

Stiles is still looking at Derek suspiciously when he takes his first bite. “Ah, ah,” he says through a mouthful of molten cheese, “Jesus, I know you’re a werewolf, but do you have taste buds?” But the heat doesn’t stop him from taking a second bite. He swallows. “Have you ever been to - ”

“If you need help with your homework, Stiles, just ask,” Derek interrupts. “What are you working on, anyway? Geography?”

A pepperoni slides off Stiles’ pizza and onto the couch, leaving a smear of grease where it lands. Yet Derek’s certain that’s not why Stiles looks guilty. “I’m looking at schools,” the teen mumbles, wiping at the mess with a napkin.

Derek gets up from the table and grabs a wet paper towel. “In states you’ve never visited?” he asks skeptically.

Stiles shrugs. “I’m looking at schools that give scholarships to - ” his hand slaps his denim-clad prosthetic with a dull thud “ - students with disabilities.”

Derek stops trying to blot at the stained cushion and takes a seat next to Stiles. “OK,” he says, trying to ignore the lump rising in his throat as he eyes the disabilities services website for the University of Nebraska-Omaha. “But you don’t want to go to school in Omaha.”

“Why not?”

“Because Nebraska is overrun with werewolves,” replies Derek, knocking Stiles’ hand out of the way so he can close the tab. He slings his arm over the back of the couch and looks at the next college on Stiles’ list. It’s also in the Midwest.

But Stiles, apparently more interested in Nebraska’s werewolf population than a stock image of a wheelchair-bound graduate embracing the school’s tiger mascot, tilts his head back. “I don’t believe you,” he declares, face inches from Derek’s.

“They came to build the railroad, and they stayed under the Homestead Act,” Derek says. Stiles’ lips are chapped, he notices.

“Huh,” says Stiles, same way he always does when he’s learned something new. “That might defeat the purpose of getting out of Beacon Hills.”

Derek’s not _surprised,_ but it still hurts to hear the teen say he plans to leave. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Now Stiles is running a knuckle over his lip. “Not really?” he says. “I mean, you get it. You ran off to New York after - everything.”

He’d been sitting with Laura at the all-night diner when she’d asked where he wanted to go next. “As far away as possible,” Derek says absently.

“What?” Stiles cranes his neck again. He looks concerned. It startles Derek to be the recipient of such caring.

Derek clears his throat. “After the fire, Laura asked me where I wanted to go. I told her, ‘As far away as possible.’”

Stiles’ mouth twists into a wry smile. “Technically, I think Miami’s farther,” he deadpans.

Half of South Beach is run by werewolves, but no good can come out of sharing that tidbit with Stiles. “But in New York, it’s easier to blend in,” he counters.

“Where’d you go, anyway?” Stiles asks, returning once again to his computer. “Because if you’ve got any tips for picking a school - ”

“I didn’t go to college.”

Stiles frowns. “Yeah, you did,” he insists.

The flinch is involuntary. “Stiles, I think I’d be the one to know.”

“Nooooo,” says Stiles, waving his hands and shaking his head all at once. “That wasn’t - I’m not - I don’t think there’s anything wrong with not going to college, OK? You’re just so smart and well-read I figured you had.”

“You can be smart and well-read without going to college.” Derek’s not trying to sound miffed, but it still comes out a little flat.

Stiles won’t look at Derek. “I know that,” he says quickly. “Uh, so what did you do out there?”

“I worked.” There it is again, the unintentional terseness. “Mostly construction. Laura waited tables. I’d pick up bar shifts sometimes. You know, what people without degrees do to make a living.”

This time, it’s Stiles who flinches. “C’mon, Derek,” he says, voice soft. “Give me a break. It’s - I didn’t mean anything by it. My dad didn’t go to college, either, and he’s one of the smartest people I know.”

Some of the tightness leaves Derek’s shoulders. “He’s what, former Army?”

Funnily, Stiles tenses. “Uh, yeah,” the teen says, licking his lips. “He enlisted when he was 18. I used to - I always thought he was secretly hoping I’d show an interest. But then he threw a fit sophomore year when I mentioned Scott and I were thinking about joining JROTC. Turns out, taking a bullet in Kuwait had changed his perspective.” The teen smiles ruefully. “Not that, uh, it matters now.”

Derek’s fingers curl instinctively toward the nape of Stiles’ neck. His hair’s getting long again. “We don’t - ”

Stiles jerks forward, heart hammering. “What are you doing?” he demands.

But it’s too late. “Stiles,” Derek says evenly, “what hurts?”

 _“Nothing,”_ the teen lies.

“Stiles.”

Derek’s not expecting Stiles to flop back against his arm. Now, wrist pressed to the teen’s neck, he can feel the pain radiating from Stiles’ stump. “See?” says Stiles, biting his lip. “It’s not a - ”

“Take it off, Stiles,” Derek says. Before the teen can protest, he adds, “Unless you want me to call Bridget right now.”

Stiles groans, but he reaches for the button on his jeans. “Fine,” he says, a little waspishly as he slides them off, “but I’m going to rub my butt on your couch. Get me a soda, will you?”

Derek almost chokes. “OK,” he calls over his shoulder en route to the kitchen, “but just keep in mind, Isaac used to sit there in his underwear, eating cereal.”

The words have their intended effect: Stiles makes a strangled sort of squawk. Derek is about to grab the teen a Coke when he sees the empty can in the sink, a reminder Stiles already had one. He fetches Stiles a glass of water instead.

Stiles, still rolling up his jeans, doesn’t take it. “I think you’re mistaken,” he tells Derek, cupping his hands as if he were holding a pop can. “A soda is this fizzy, carbonated beverage - ”

“It’s bending the rules that I let you have one,” says Derek, setting the glass on a coaster. “You’re not getting a second.” He hands back Stiles’ laptop. “You’re supposed to take your prosthesis off when it starts to hurt.”

Stiles squirms. “I know, I know,” he says quickly, “but how am I going to build up to wearing it all day if it always hurts?”

“Well,” says Derek, taking a deep breath, unsure how to tackle the flawed logic. When he’d offered the sheriff a hand, he hadn’t expected Stiles to seamlessly insert himself into Derek’s life. It’s easy to forget _why_ Stiles is there when he’s stealing the werewolf’s food and starting unnecessary fights about the Oxford comma when all Derek is _trying_ to do is edit the teen’s English homework. In fact, most nights, the werewolf forgets Stiles is in near-constant pain. “You know, it’s not supposed to hurt.”

Stiles ignores this, closing the tab with a photo of the wheelchair-bound graduate. “Want to watch a movie?” he asks.

But Derek’s frowning at what’s still up on Stiles’ screen: it’s clearly a back channel into the DMV website. “Stiles,” he says, “why are you trying to hack the Department of Motor Vehicles?”

“It’s not ‘hacking,’” says Stiles, elbow jabbing Derek as he makes air quotes with his fingers. A photo of _Taylor, Eleanor M._ stares back at him. “Not if all you’re doing is creatively exploiting the system’s limitations.”

Derek arches an eyebrow. “Fess up, Stiles. Who is she?” He lets the teen twiddle his thumbs for a few seconds before giving Stiles his sternest look.

“OK, OK,” says Stiles. “She’s, uh, oh you’re going to be mad - she’s Malia’s mom, OK?”

 _Huh._ But now that Stiles has said it, Derek thinks he sees it. Especially knowing Peter’s tastes back then. “I’m not mad,” the werewolf says, “but if you don’t want me to tell your dad how you’re using his credentials, you’re going to need to tell me why the sudden interest in Malia’s birth mom.

Stiles considers this and must decide it’s a fair trade because he nods. “Honestly,” he tells Derek, “I’m not sure what made Malia want to find her because she seems like bad news to me.” And he proceeds to show Derek a long rap sheet, including a two-year prison stint on assault charges.

“And you’ve shown all this to Malia?”

Out come the air quotes. “‘So? Try to remember I killed my mom and sister.’”

Derek bristles. “It’s not like Malia meant - ”

“Yeah,” Stiles interrupts, “I don’t think that distinction matters much to her. She has a tendency to see the world in black and white, if you haven’t noticed.”

Derek’s noticed, all right. He’s also noticed how steady Stiles’ heartbeat has been throughout this exchange. That just tells Derek the teen wanted to get caught. “So what is it you want me to do?” he asks. “I can talk to - ”

“She’ll listen to you,” Stiles says confidently. “I mean, that’s what she wants, isn’t it? A connection to family?”

Derek isn’t so certain. He’s sitting right next to Stiles, so close they both jump when the werewolf’s phone vibrates.

**SCOTT: Is Stiles with you**

“My dad?” Stiles wants to know.

But Derek’s already shoved the phone back into his pocket without replying to the alpha. “Scott.”

“What’s he want?”

“Nothing important,” Derek says. He clears his throat. “You said something about a movie?”

Stiles’ eyes flicker to the clock in the corner of the screen. “Is this going to be ‘Iron Man’ all over again?” he wants to know. “Are you going to finish it without me if Dad gets off early?”

“You’ve seen ‘Iron Man’ before,” Derek says, pushing the teen’s hand off the track pad. “And it’s my turn to pick.”

*           *           *

The new running shoes have arch support and shock absorption, but they feel stiff and foreign as Parrish laces them up. He stands, reaching for his jogging holster as he casts a rueful look at his well-worn sneakers. He’d made the mistake of mentioning to Sue he was running again. A box from Amazon had been waiting for him when he got home from work, though Parrish didn’t remember ordering anything.

_LOVE YOU!!! Now throw those disgusting old shoes away :-)_

_~Sue_

The packing slip had gone on the fridge, a reminder to call and thank her when it wasn’t 2 a.m. back in Ames. He’d stayed late once again to help the sheriff, this time with the lacrosse coach, whose accident and arrest John hoped to keep quiet. Unfortunately, a live truck from the station in Redding had been circling the block when Parrish left. As soon as the sheriff brings Finstock from the hospital for booking, all of Beacon County will know.

Parrish grabs his earbuds off the counter and plugs them into his iPhone, another Sue purchase he’d felt guilty accepting but had no real reason to turn down. He’s had it for a month but hasn’t bothered to put music on it yet, preferring to run to Meredith’s taped confession night after night.

He shakes his head as the tape begins to play, imagining what Sue would say if she knew how he was using her gifts. “Now is that really healthy, Jordan?” she’d ask, one hand on her hip, the other wagging a dish towel for emphasis.

But he doesn’t think about Sue’s pristine kitchen for long. The voice of Sheriff Sanders, the dead Butte County lawman, fills his ears as he begins to run.

“Meredith, lift your head. I need you to tell me what happened. Who killed them, Meredith? Who killed your family?”

“Can’t you see she’s traumatized?” snaps the court-appointed victim’s advocate. Parrish doesn’t know her name - he’s tried in vain to track it down - only that Meredith was 17, the same age Lydia is now.

“It was my job to protect them,” Meredith whispers. “My job, my job, my job - ”

“Who were you trying to protect them from, Meredith? Why did your family need protecting?”

Parrish runs faster as the banshee begins to wail. “Noooooo. Noooooo. Noooooo.”

“You’re not going to get anything out of her,” the advocate says waspishly. “Not when she’s like this. Let’s give it - ”

“I was supposed to take care of them,” Meredith says. There’s a scrape of metal, and Parrish knows the next sound - a toppled chair. _“I was supposed to take care of them.”_

“Meredith, I’m going to need you to sit down,” Sanders says, patience clearly wearing thin. “No one - ” now Parrish imagines he’s giving the advocate the side-eye “ - is saying you didn’t take care of them. Can you sit back down? There’s a good girl. Tell me what happened, Meredith. Is that something you can do? She’s nodding, someone note that she’s nodding.”

“I promised,” Meredith sniffles.

“Who’d you promise, Meredith?”

“She needs a break,” the advocate begs Sanders. “This has been going on for hours. I’ll call a judge if I have to. This is too - ”

“It was me.”

“What was you?” the sheriff prompts.

“Me,” says Meredith, “me, me, me, me - ”

“Tell me what happened, Meredith.”

“I killed them,” she mutters.

“Was that a confession?” the sheriff asks, not Meredith but whoever’s operating the recording equipment. “Meredith, was that a confession?”

“I did it. I killed them.”

“I have to object - ”

“You killed your family?”

“I was supposed to take care of them,” says Meredith, and she’s shaking so hard he can hear it on the tape. “I was supposed to take care of them, and they’re all dead now.” There’s a choked sob.

“Who killed them, Meredith?” There’s a whisper neither Sanders nor Parrish catches. “Say it for me, Meredith. Who killed your family?”

“I killed my family.”

“This is outrageous. She’s a minor. She clearly needs a psych - ”

“How’d you kill them, Meredith?” A fist hits the table. “Note that she made a stabbing motion, will you? Meredith, I’ve got one more question for you. Why’d you do it?”

“I was trying to save them. I was trying - ” the banshee hiccoughs “ - to save them.”

Parrish plays the tape again.

_“Meredith, lift your head. I need you to tell me what happened. Who killed them, Meredith? Who killed your family?”_

_“Can’t you see she’s traumatized?”_

_“It was my job to protect them. My job, my job, my job - ”_

Parrish listens to her confess three more times before he skids to a halt, gasping for air. He’d been so focused on the tape he’d been running loose-limbed and way too fast, the way he had as a freshman on the cross country team who had no idea how to set a pace. He pulls out the earbuds and walks a quarter-mile before he’s ready to run again.

He’s a long way from his apartment and doesn’t really want to get lost in Meredith’s confession again, so he picks a different track - from earlier in the interrogation, one he hasn’t listened to on repeat in the weeks since he’d downloaded the lot of them from McCall’s computer.

Meredith begins to sob, and Parrish runs. If he remembers correctly, Sanders isn’t even in the room - just the banshee and the woman from DCFS.

“They’re not here to hurt you, Meredith,” she says soothingly. “All they want is to find out who hurt your family. Surely you want them to find who hurt your family, don’t you?”

This only makes Meredith cry harder.

Except this time, Parrish doesn’t hear the sobs of a teenage girl. He hears ...

_... a whisper._

It’s Meredith, all right, but not the jittery, jumpy banshee he’d visited in Eichen House or heard on the tapes. It’s how he thinks Meredith would have sounded before brain surgery, before the voices in her head took over. This Meredith, well, Parrish believes she could have given the interview that appeared in the Paradise Post about her soccer stats and brave cancer battle.

She says, “He said he could help me. He said he’d teach me how to control my powers. But all he did was turn up the volume.”

Parrish almost stumbles. He pulls out his phone and plays it again.

_“He said he could help me. He said he’d teach me how to control my powers. But all he did was turn up the volume. There was so much noise. I couldn’t tune it out. All I could do was scream.”_

_“He said he could help me. He said he’d teach me how to control my powers. But all he did was turn up the volume. There was so much noise. I couldn’t tune it out. All I could do was scream. And when I didn’t stop, he killed them.”_

“Who, Meredith?” Parrish hears himself ask the dark shape. “Who killed them?”

But the fourth time he plays the tape, the quiet, confident Meredith disappears, the inconsolable banshee back. Frustrated, Parrish jabs at the controls. The phone skips out of his hand, screen shattering as it hits the pavement.

*           *           *

“Again,” says Noshiko, before her daughter’s back even hits the floor. “You lack focus, Kira.”

The younger kitsune groans as she picks herself up off the mat. “Everyone lacks focus at 5:30 in the morning, Mom,” she grumbles, lifting her fists.

In one fluid motion, Noshiko raises an arm to block Kira’s shot and thrusts out a knee, using her daughter’s momentum against her. Back down Kira tumbles. “Not me,” Noshiko says pointedly. “Again.”

This time, Kira doesn’t bother to get up. “No,” she tells her mother.

Noshiko stands with her hands on her hips. “Kira, unless you are hurt, you need to stand up and try again.”

Kira doesn’t budge. “I’m never going to beat you,” she complains, ignoring the hand her mother extends.

Now Noshiko crosses her arms. “Not with that attitude, no.”

“I’m a thunder kitsune,” Kira replies. “Why do I need to learn hand-to-hand combat?”

Noshiko sighs. “We have been over this, Kira,” she says impatiently. “You cannot master your powers without tails. But first you must learn how to focus. I can teach you. In order to do that, you must get up off the mat.”

Kira closes her eyes. She’s spent hours practicing turning the lights on and off at the Stilinskis’, and it’s easy enough to hit the power here.

Of course, she’s not expecting her mother’s hand at her throat. “What did you just do?” Noshiko demands. “What - ”

Kira sees white spots before she hears her dad calling, “Honey, did the power just - _Noshiko, let go.”_

“She did it,” Noshiko is saying, though she loosens her grip on the younger kitsune’s neck. “She made the lights go out.”

Ken wedges himself firmly between his seething wife and spluttering daughter. He helps Kira to a sitting position, from which she glares daggers at her mother. “Can one of you explain what is going on?” Ken wants to know.

“She tried to strangle me!” Kira says hotly.

At the same time, Noshiko snaps, “She has no idea what she is doing!”

Ken, still in his pajamas and thrust unwilling into the role of referee, turns to his daughter first. “Your mother says you made the lights go out. Is that true?” Kira nods, rubbing her neck. “And you did it on purpose, not like the time you knocked out power at the school?”

“No,” says Kira. “I can control it now.” She squeezes her eyes shut. When she opens them, the lights are back on again.

But Noshiko isn’t impressed. “No!”

Kira scrambles to her feet. “Why not?” she demands, the lacrosse t-shirt she’d stolen from Scott slipping off her shoulder. “Stiles has been helping me practice.” And to prove her point, she flips the lights off and on again as fast as child playing with the switch. “Maybe it’s time to admit your methods could use some work, Mom.”

“Kira, it’s not - ”

Noshiko doesn’t let her husband finish. “Oh, Stiles? Stiles has been helping you? You should know - ”

_“Noshiko.”_

“Very well,” Noshiko says, eyes sweeping her husband with disdain. To Kira, she says, “You will not continue down this path, Kira. It is very dangerous to let a spark act as your grounding wire. No, control must come from within.”

“I _am_ in control,” Kira insists. “I’m the one doing it, me - ”

But her irritation has impaired her focus. This time, she closes her eyes and shards of glass rain down around them as the overhead bulbs burst.

Ken, slipper-clad, sighs. “Stay here,” he admonishes his barefoot wife and daughter. “I’ll get the dustpan.”

As soon as he’s out of earshot, Noshiko hisses, _“See what I mean?”_

 _“No,”_ Kira counters sharply. Her mom might have a point, but she’s not willing to concede it. “It’s never happened before. It’s - ”

Noshiko’s grip is tight on her daughter’s wrist. “You will not ask Stiles’ help again.”

“Let go of me.”

“Tell me you will not go to Stiles for help again, and I will.”

“I’ll go to Stiles as long as you’re refusing to teach me anything useful,” Kira says defiantly.

“Stiles is a child,” Noshiko says, refusing to budge despite her daughter’s squirming. “He knows only what the nogitsune imprinted on him. Let me teach you, Kira. Together we can live - ”

The door clatters open as Ken returns with the dustpan. “What?” Kira interrupts loudly, so her father will be sure to hear. “Together we can live forever?”

“Yes,” Noshiko says simply.

“What if I don’t want to live forever?” Kira fires back.

“You are 17,” Noshiko replies. “You cannot know what you want.”

“Yes, I can,” Kira challenges. “I want - ”

She’s surprised to hear her dad interject, “Kira, you should listen to your mother. A life that spans a millennium cannot be easy. I will never know. But your mother does, and you might. You might not always like what your mother has to say, but you must try to respect it.”

Kira swallows. He’s just answered a question she’s had for weeks, months really, ever since her mother admitted she was a 900-year-old kitsune. “Will I?” she asks her dad. “Will I live forever?”

But before Ken can answer, Noshiko replies, “If you do not start earning your tails, Kira, and do not let go of Scott’s pack, then no, you will not live forever. You may not live very long at all.”

“Noshiko - ”

She ignores her mortal husband and stalks across the glass-strewn mat, shards of shattered light bulb embedding in her bare feet. When she pauses at the door, it’s to wag a finger at her daughter. “I can heal,” Noshiko tells Kira. “You cannot.”

*           *           *

There’s a bright red 71 atop Malia’s earth science test but also the words “Good job!!” A smiley face appears under the underlined exclamation points. The werecoyote frowns. The bell rings.

“Don’t forget to read chapter six,” Ms. Martin calls as the class of mostly freshmen flood out into the hallway, “because there’s a solid chance I’ll quiz you on it Monday!”

Malia ignores the collective groan, still puzzling over the seemingly incongruous C- and words of encouragement. She grips the test with both hands. “Ms. Martin?”

Lydia’s mom flashes her a dazzling smile. “Yes, Malia?”

“You wrote ‘Good job!!’ on my test,” the werecoyote says.

“I know,” Ms. Martin says, taking a seat at her desk. “Nicely done.”

Malia’s tongue flicks across her lips. “But I barely passed.”

“So? You passed, Malia,” Ms. Martin counters, “for the first time this semester. I’m proud of you.”

“You are?”

Ms. Martin nods. “If you want, I can work with you one-on-one during your study hall. You might be able to pass this class with a B with a little extra effort.”

Malia considers this. She’s failing Algebra and English. It’d be nice if she could bring home good grades in something other than gym. “You think so?”

“Stop by before school on Monday,” Ms. Martin tells her. “We can go over any questions you have before the quiz.”

“OK,” says Malia. She bites her lip. “Thank you.” She turns to go.

“You’ll finish high school, Malia.” The werecoyote freezes. “No, maybe not when your friends do, but you’re smarter than you think you are. You should be thinking about what you want to do after you graduate.”

Malia doesn’t know what to say to _that,_ so she bolts. She’s late, anyway, to meet Kira, who she always walks with to lunch. She stuffs the test into her backpack and tries to forget what Lydia’s mom said. Malia is sure Ms. Martin is just being nice. Everyone knows graduation is a long shot for the werecoyote.

But Kira’s not at her locker when she gets there. Figuring she’s missed the kitsune, Malia is about to head for the cafeteria when she hears sniffling coming from inside Mr. Yukimura’s classroom.

It’s instinct, not a desire to eavesdrop, that has the werecoyote pressing her back to the wall, ears bent low. “She just doesn’t like Scott,” Kira is telling her dad between tears. “She just - ”

“Kira,” Mr. Yukimura interrupts, not unkindly, “it’s not that your mother dislikes Scott. It’s that - ”

“It’s what?” Kira challenges. “She doesn’t like werewolves?”

“No, Kira, listen to me - ”

But the kitsune isn’t interested in what her father has to say. “Teenage boys? Lacrosse captains? Is it all mortals? Because she married you.”

“Well, yes.”

Malia shouldn’t be listening to this. She’s about to slink off, maybe skip lunch entirely and just hit the gym - she’s got Gatorade and protein bars in her cross country locker - when she sees Scott at the other end of the hallway.

He waves, and jogs toward her. “Hey,” he says, “have you seen - ”

“She’s talking to her dad,” Malia says quickly, loudly, a lame effort to drown out the Yukimuras’ conversation.

Scott reaches for the door handle. “I’ll just - ”

“No!” Malia shouts. The voices in the classroom fall silent. Wild-eyed, she grabs at her backpack straps. “I mean - ”

The door opens with a bang and Kira comes charging out, almost mowing down her friends. Her face is splotchy, but her tone is no-nonsense. “What are you two doing?” she says, kissing Scott on the cheek. “Lydia’s going to think we stood her up.”

The kitsune’s heart is beating very fast.

In the lunchroom, Lydia’s books and college brochures have almost taken over their usual table. “Oh, you’re here,” she says in a bored, disinterested tone. She doesn’t offer to move her papers, instead letting her friends wedge their trays in between stacks of schoolwork. Scott gets a death glare for splashing marinara on her physics binder.

“Oops,” says the alpha as Kira hands him a wad of napkins. Malia shrinks back in her seat, eyes glued to a glossy postcard from the University of Chicago.

“Lydia,” Kira says cautiously as the banshee simultaneously chews on a pencil and pounds on the keyboard of her MacBook Air, “just, uh, how many schools are you applying to?”

In lieu of an answer, Lydia says, “Early action deadline for most schools is November 1st.”

Malia tears her eyes away from the Chicago skyline and asks, “What’s early action?”

No one answers. She stabs at a floret of overcooked broccoli. Lydia, Malia sees, hadn’t bothered with a plate lunch, an apple forgotten amid the books and papers. The banshee’s cell phone, just as buried, vibrates.

Scott’s the only brave one. “Lydia, I think your phone - ”

 _“I know,”_ she snaps. Then she swallows. “I mean,” she says quickly, two front teeth leaving little indentions in her carefully-applied lipstick, “I’ll find it. Just give me a second.”

It’s underneath Lydia’s Latin homework. “Here,” says Malia, pressing the phone in its pink case into Lydia’s hand. “You have a text message.”

As if on cue, the phone buzzes again. “Who do you know with a 515 area code?” Kira wants to know

“No one,” Lydia says, back to waspish. She drops the phone into her bag without looking at it.

The alpha clears his throat. “So what are we doing tonight?”

Right. Friday. Stiles. Malia’s attendance at their pack gatherings is sporadic at best, but Stiles had texted her the night before to ask if she’d be there. She still hasn’t replied.

“Pumpkins!” says Kira, a little maniacally. Malia hears the kitsune swallow. “I mean, we’re going to carve pumpkins.”

The morning of the accident, Mr. Tate had thrown out the weeks-old pumpkins rotting on the front step. That year, he’d helped Malia carve a witch. She’d gotten in trouble for calling Caitlin’s simple jack-o-lantern boring, bringing her sister to tears. Caitlin had cried again when the black, molding pumpkins finally had to be tossed.

“But we can’t take Stiles to Faulkner’s Ranch,” Malia blurts without thinking. Every year, the Tates had taken their daughters to the pumpkin patch for hayrides and apple cider. But there’s no way Stiles will be able to negotiate the uneven path on his prosthesis.

Lydia finally looks up from her computer. “Malia,” the banshee says as Scott and Kira exchange a look, “Faulkner’s closed a few years ago.”

“Oh.” That’s probably why her dad hasn’t suggested they go. “So where do we get pumpkins?”

“The grocery store?” Scott guesses. “I think I saw a bunch at the WinCo the other day.”

“We’ll get you one,” Kira assures Malia.

Malia should thank the kitsune, but she doesn’t want a pumpkin from the grocery store. She longs for the Halloweens her family used to have, before the accident. “OK,” she says.

The bell rings. Scott rockets out of his seat, though he hasn’t finished his mozzarella sticks. “I actually need to talk to Coach,” he tells Kira and Malia, who also have gym next hour.

Malia opens her mouth to tell him Coach isn’t there - she has him for health first period, and there had been a sub - but Scott’s gone before she can get the words out. Then again, the thump of the alpha’s heart makes her think he already knows he won’t find Finstock.

Kira tries to offer Lydia a hand packing up, but the banshee isn’t having it. “I’m not leaving until I’ve finished this essay,” she says, waving them away.

“I should text Stiles,” Malia tells Kira after they’ve dumped their trays. “Let him know I’m coming.”

“If you need a ride - ”

“No,” Malia interrupts, unlocking her phone. She needs to get to Stiles before Kira, before the rest of the pack.

_Yesterday 9:58 PM_

**STILES: Hey, are you coming tomorrow?**

**STILES: We should talk.**

**STILES: It’s about your mom.**

*           *           *

Lydia ignores her phone throughout physics (the last thing she needs is her mom to confiscate it), leaves it in her bag during AP Statistics (she has a test to ace), but her attention falters as the old Latin teacher, Mr. Morris, drones on, and she finds herself reading the string of texts under her desk.

**+1 (515) 555-2345: We need to talk**

**+1 (515) 555-2345: It’s about Meredit**

**+1 (515) 555-2345: I’m sorry I went to Eichen house.**

**+1 (515) 555-2345: But you need to hear this. Can you come by the station after school?**

She immediately wishes she hadn’t.

Heart pounding, Lydia waits for Mr. Morris to turn his back before firing off a response.

**LYDIA: How did you get this number?**

**+1 (515) 555-2345: Actually I’ll come to you**

“Miss Martin, where do - ”

But Lydia ignores Mr. Morris’ feeble protest that the bell won’t ring for another five minutes. She’s determined to get as far away from Beacon Hills High as she can before Parrish can trap her.

The banshee doesn’t get very far before she collides with Malia. The werecoyote catches Lydia’s shoulders, steadying her. “Are you OK?” Malia wants to know. “All of a sudden, your heart started beating like crazy.”

Lydia tries to shake Malia off, but of course, the werecoyote is much stronger and doesn’t let go. “And you were listening why?”

Malia bites her lip. “Sometimes, it helps to - it helps to know my friends are nearby.”

Lydia softens. “I’m fine,” she says. “Go on, get back to class.”

But the werecoyote doesn’t budge. “I told Mr. Yukimura why I had to leave.” Her eyes flicker to Lydia’s bulging bag. “Want me to walk out with you?”

Finally, the banshee nods. “OK,” she says. She figures even if Parrish is waiting for her in the parking lot, he’d be a fool to start in on Meredith and Eichen House if Lydia has Malia in tow.

Sure enough, the deputy’s face falls when he spies Malia. “Lydia,” Parrish says. He’s leaning against the back of her Prius, arms crossed.

“Can’t talk,” Lydia says breezily, blowing right past him. To Malia, she says, “I’ll see you at Stiles’ later?” She has to appreciate how suspiciously the werecoyote is eyeing Parrish, whose rumpled uniform and bloodshot eyes don’t inspire confidence.

He wedges himself between her and the driver’s side door. “This will only take a minute,” he tells her.

Lydia tries to maneuver around him. “I told you,” she says, trying to mask her fear with irritation, “I can’t talk.”

Parrish isn’t listening. “It’s important, Lydia,” he says, reaching for her arm.

In a flash, Malia is dragging the deputy back. “She’s trying to tell you to leave her alone,” she says crossly.

“Seriously?” Parrish stares at Malia’s hand on his arm. “I’m a deputy sheriff.”

The werecoyote’s nostrils flare. Lydia closes her eyes. _Don’t shift, Malia._ The bell’s going to ring any minute.

“You’re bothering my friend,” Malia says.

A few tense seconds pass. Then Parrish takes a step back, and another. “Right,” he mutters, like it suddenly occurs to him that to come here, to the high school, because a teenage girl wants to avoid him, is wildly inappropriate. “I’m just going to - ” he jerks a thumb over his shoulder to his cruiser, parked a couple of spots away.

The arm Malia slings around Lydia is surprisingly reassuring. “What’s his deal?” she asks, nose wrinkling.

“He thinks he understands,” Lydia whispers, shaking her head. “He doesn’t.”

Down the row, Parrish turns the key in the ignition and the engine roars to life. And that’s when Lydia hears it, Meredith’s voice pumped out over the speakers: “He said he could help me,” the other banshee says. “He said he’d teach me how to control my powers. But all he did was turn up the volume.”

Lydia screams.

*           *           *

“Well,” Stiles demands, catching Derek by the elbow, “aren’t you going to tell me what _that_ was about?”

Derek musters his best _do you want to take your hand off of me_ eyebrows, but he doesn’t scare Stiles. Not when Stiles is balanced precariously on one crutch and knows the werewolf wouldn’t dare shake him off. Across the house, the front door closes. Derek settles on, “Your dad needs Scott’s help with something.”

“Lydia screamed.” Derek doesn’t answer, but that’s OK. It’s a statement, not a question. “Does Lydia’s scream have to predict death?”

“Where’s your other crutch?”

Stiles hobbles after him. “That’s not an answer,” he challenges. “Lydia’s scream, does someone always die - ”

“You didn’t,” Derek interrupts, spinning around, Stiles’ other crutch in hand. “Do you really want a repeat of last week? Take this before you fall down.”

Stiles scowls at the mention of his spectacular wipeout. “I don’t need - ” He stops short, almost pitches forward. “What do you mean, _I didn’t?_ What didn’t I do?”

Derek grabs the teen’s shoulder to steady him. “After the bus crash. Lydia screamed, but you didn’t die.”

Stiles is too stunned to push Derek’s hand away. _“What?”_

“After the bus crash,” Derek grits, “after the one surgery, where - ”

“The one where my abdominal aorta blew?” Stiles guesses.

“ - where your abdominal aorta blew, yes,” says Derek through clenched teeth. Stiles probably deserves the glare he gets. “You were back on the vent and heavily sedated. I was sitting with you so your dad could sleep. That’s when Lydia screamed.”

“Oh.”

Derek lets go of Stiles’ shoulder. “So no, Lydia’s scream doesn’t have to predict death.”

Stiles swallows hard. “OK,” he says slowly, “so maybe no one’s dead. Maybe - ”

“Malia’s here,” Derek interrupts.

Right. The werecoyote. Sure enough, Stiles hears her insistent knock before he’s halfway down the hall. In the excitement over Lydia’s scream, he’d all but forgotten enlisting Derek’s help to convince Malia her birth mom was bad news. Now she’s there early, pounding adamantly at the door. “Give me a minute,” he calls.

But Malia is already pulling the door closed. “You don’t move very fast,” she informs him, eyeing his crutches. “I thought your new leg meant you wouldn’t need those anymore.”

“I’m working on it,” Stiles mutters, face hot.

“Where is everyone?” Malia wants to know, ramming him with her shoulder as she squeezes down the narrow hallway. “I thought we were carving pumpkins.”

Stiles runs a hand through his hair before limping after her. “Change of plans. Scott left with my dad. Kira’s with Lydia. It’s just - ”

He almost slams into Malia in the doorway. “You don’t have to yell,” she reminds him crossly. “I can hear you.”

Derek snorts. Stiles’ eyes track Malia as she crosses the kitchen. Her hand hovers on the fridge door.

“Help yourself,” Stiles says with a shrug.

Malia emerges with a stick of string cheese. “So what, Lydia screams and everyone has to stop what they’re doing?”

“So you heard Lydia scream, huh?” Stiles tries as Malia drops into a seat at the kitchen table.

“Everyone heard Lydia scream after school,” she tells Stiles and Derek matter-of-factly, ripping into the plastic packaging with her teeth.

Stiles starts to make a peeling motion with both hands, but the side-eye he gets from Derek is a reminder now’s not the time to correct Malia’s manners. “OK, but you were with her, right? Scott said you - ”

“If Scott already told you what I told him, why are you asking me?” Malia asks, biting off a hunk of cheese. Stiles dies a little inside. “One of your dad’s deputies wanted to talk to her, she didn’t, I told him to leave, and she started screaming.”

Stiles furrows his brow. “You told a cop - ”

“It was Parrish,” Derek interjects. “He wasn’t there on official business.”

Stiles whips his head around to glare at the werewolf. “Do you know how much time it would save if you and Scott just _told_ me things?” he complains. “Wait, does Lydia even _know_ Parrish?”

Malia shrugs, crumpling the empty string cheese wrapper in her fist, but Derek volunteers, “She called him when she found Sheriff Sanders’ body.”

Stiles’ brain flashes to the bloated, blackened corpse he’d seen through Lydia’s eyes a month earlier. “Right,” he says, clearing his throat. Before the accident, Lydia would have called him. If the look on Derek’s face is any indication, he’s thinking the same thing.

Maybe that’s why he offers up, “Whatever’s happening, I don’t think Lydia’s behind it. She was desperate enough to go to Peter.”

_“Peter?”_

But it’s Malia who asks the money question.  “How does Peter know so much, anyway?” She’s trying to sound casual, Stiles knows. Yet the curious expression on her face betrays her. Malia hasn’t learned how to feign interest yet, and she’d looked bored to tears by the talk about Lydia.

What Stiles is expecting from Derek is a non-answer answer. That’s why he’s so surprised when Derek locks eyes with him and urges, “Sit down. This might take a while.” He pulls out a chair for Stiles, props the teen’s crutches up, then he sits down, too.

_He’s trying to gain her trust. Just like you asked._

“I’m not sure where to begin,” he confesses after a minute.

Completely serious, Malia says, “You were going to tell us why Peter’s so evil.”

Even Derek can’t contain his amused huff. “There’s always a pack hierarchy when werewolves live together,” he explains. “In some packs, it’s based on strength. In others, it’s the best hunter or the most fertile. But in small, family packs like ours, it’s birth order. The first-born daughter - my sister Laura - would succeed my mother as alpha. As the first-born son, I would have taken on the same responsibilities as my mother’s oldest brother, Uncle Frederick. He ran the house and supervised us kids. But more importantly, he backed my mother’s decisions and defended them to the rest of the pack - even when they disagreed.”

Impatiently, Malia says, “First-born daughter, alpha. First-born son, beta. So what was Peter?”

“I’ll get there,” Derek promises. “You’ve heard of an heir and a spare?”

“Yes,” says Stiles.

At the same time, Malia says, “No.”

Derek’s face says _go ahead,_ so Stiles explains,  “Royal families usually have at least two kids. The first gets the crown, but they needed at least two - ”

“ - in case something happened to the first,” Malia interrupts. “Got it.”

“Except in our family - ” it’s not lost on Stiles the way Derek emphasizes the _our_ for Malia “ - it was daughters. Once Laura had daughters of her own, Cora would have left our pack to marry into another.” He exhales slowly. “She told me she had less trouble adjusting after the fire because she always expected to leave the pack.”

Stiles still doesn’t have a clear picture of how Cora spent those years, but now’s not the time to ask, not when Derek’s finally opening up. “But Peter couldn’t have been the spare,” Stiles points out. “Your pack was matrilineal.”

“Exactly,” says Derek.

_So if Peter wasn’t the heir, or the spare, then what was he?_

It hits him: Peter wasn’t anything.

Next to Stiles, Malia is getting restless. “None of this has anything to do with my birth mom,” she whines.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Derek tells Malia, not unkindly. “The thing you have to understand about Peter is how important all of this stuff is. After he was born, my grandparents wanted to try one more time for a girl, even though my grandma was really past childbearing age. Her second daughter was stillborn, and she died not long after. Naturally, my grandfather was devastated. He largely withdrew from pack life and left my mother, now an alpha, to raise her baby brother.”

Malia looks right at Stiles when she says, “So? Lots of kids lose a parent without going psycho.”

But Stiles, who managed to teach himself an impressive amount of Polish in the months after his mother died, thinks he’s starting to get it. “He wanted to feel close to her.”

Derek nods. “It was like one day a switch flipped in Peter, at least according to Uncle Fred. But my mom wrote it off, first as grief, later as teenage rebellion. By the time Laura and I were old enough to realize there was something - well, _off -_ about Peter, he was in his early 20s, so after you were born, Malia. He would disappear for weeks, months even, at a time. Usually, that’s a huge no-no. But he always came back, and all Mom ever did was tell Fred to set a place at the table for Peter. In front of the pack, Fred was always cordial. Once though, Laura and I heard them fighting. Fred was telling Peter he knew what he was up to, he was going to tell Mom, all this stuff about emissaries two eavesdropping preteen werewolves wouldn’t understand.”

“Isn’t the emissary usually known only to the alpha, though?” Stiles can’t help but ask.

“Do you know why?”

Before Stiles can answer, Malia says, _“Because,”_ like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “if everyone knew who the emissary was, then all you’d have to do to challenge the alpha is kill or torture him.”

“Oh,” says Stiles. “That, uh, makes a lot of sense.”

Derek positively _beams_ at Malia. “After the fire, Laura went a little crazy trying to figure out why Peter lived and our mother, the most well-respected alpha in all of California, didn’t. As soon as she got me settled in New York, she came back here to search for answers. But she kept hitting dead ends. It wasn’t until she hired an accountant to scrutinize Peter’s accounts that she figured out he was spending hundreds of thousands of dollars on rare books about the occult. The type of books that would teach you, say, how to harness a banshee’s scream to resurrect someone.”

“So let me get this straight,” says Malia. “Peter’s mom dies - ” she ticks this off on a finger “ - he impregnates a high school girl, he starts reading a bunch of old books so he can figure out how to overthrow his alpha sister and he happens to come across a spell that’ll be handy a decade later when he’s been burned alive and needs to come back from the dead?”

“Well, when you put it like - ” Stiles starts.

“Yes,” says Derek. “Malia, that’s what you need to understand about Peter. _Everything_ he does, he does for a reason. I wouldn’t be surprised if you were part of his plan.”

“One problem,” the werecoyote points out. “Your mom took that memory from him.”

Derek drums his fingers on the Stilinskis’ kitchen table. He takes a deep breath, then he exhales slowly. “After Laura died - ” his voice hitches for the first time all night “ - I found her journals. It’s taken me a while to get through them, and I’m still not sure what all it means. This much is clear: Fred was right not to trust Peter, though he didn’t give Mom nearly enough credit. She’d wanted to keep Peter close precisely because she didn’t trust him. And Laura, well, she was convinced Peter was why Kate Argent came to Beacon Hills in the first place.”

*           *           *

“Nothing?” Kira repeats, pressing her phone to her ear and pulling the door to Lydia’s bathroom shut behind her. Dozens of nail polish bottles are arranged in neat rows on the counter. “At all?”

“Nothing,” Scott confirms. “The sheriff and I checked the warehouse district, circled the preserve, even drove out to the county line. If someone’s going to die, well, it hasn’t happened yet.” There’s a pause. “How’s Lydia?”

Lydia has spent the last two hours refusing to talk about what happened in the school parking lot. “I’m not sure,” Kira admits, absently picking up bottles of nail polish and reading the color names.

“What’s she doing?” Scott wants to know.

“Working on college applications, mostly,” says Kira. She freezes at the sound of footsteps and quickly puts back _A-Rose From The Dead._ “I have to go. Text me if you end up at Stiles’ later?”

She hauls open the bathroom door and chirps, “Hi, Ms. Martin!”

Lydia’s mom blinks. “Hi, dear.” She eyes her daughter’s closed bedroom door. “Do you girls need anything?”

 _“Nope,”_ says Kira, reaching for the doorknob.

Ms. Martin steps in front of the kitsune. “Has she said anything about what happened?” she asks, voice low.

Kira isn’t sure what to tell Ms. Martin, not when the whole school heard Lydia scream. She shrugs. “She’s - ”

But before Kira can stammer a response, Lydia materializes in the hallway. “Mom, we don’t need anything,” she says crossly, scooping Prada up with one hand. “Kira was just picking a polish.”

The last thing Kira wants is to be at the receiving end of Lydia’s cold stare, so she reaches into the dark bathroom and produces an orange mini-bottle. “For Halloween!” she lies.

Ms. Martin’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Well,” she says at last, “let me know if you’d like me to order a pizza.”

Lydia, Kira is pretty sure, doesn’t eat pizza.

As soon as Ms. Martin is out of earshot, the banshee snatches the nail polish out of Kira’s hand. “I hope you like orange,” she says waspishly.

But there are worse ways to spend a Friday than getting a manicure from Lydia. Kira holds up her right hand to inspect the banshee’s handiwork. “Wow. You are _really_ good at that.” Even the color is sort of cute.

“Give me your other hand,” Lydia prompts. Her lips purse. “And thanks. It’s been a long time since I had a girlfriend who wanted me to do her nails.”

Kira’s head jerks up. “Girlfriend?”

Lydia smirks. “Relax,” she tells the kitsune. “I only meant it’s nice to hang out with another girl who likes clothes and shopping and - ”

“Me too!” Kira interrupts excitedly. She blushes. “Before I moved here, all of my friends were girls. We’d take turns going over to each other’s apartments after school to try on each other’s clothes.”

The banshee’s eyes flicker to her full-to-bursting closet. “I mean,” she says, “be my guest.” Lydia’s hand closes around Kira’s wrist when the kitsune starts to hop up. “After your nails dry, that is.”

“Oops,” says Kira as Lydia fixes the nail she smudged. “Do you want me to do yours? I mean, I’m not very good. It probably won’t be as neat - ”

Lydia waves her hand. “Go dig through my closet while I do mine. Just,” she warns Kira as the kitsune springs to her feet, _“be careful.”_

Kira is careful not to muss her nails - or leave behind orange-colored paint - as she paws through Lydia’s closet. “Don’t worry,” she assures the banshee, pulling out a teal sweater with navy hearts she’s never seen Lydia wear, “I’m being careful.”

But Lydia is distracted by her vibrating phone. It’s the trickster, not Kira, who asks, “Cute boy?” She cringes inwardly. _Lydia’s not going to fall for that._

Except Lydia’s cheeks flush. “Not ... exactly.”

“Really?” Kira squeals, tossing the sweater over the back of Lydia’s desk chair and rejoining the banshee on her bed. “Who?”

Lydia snatches back her phone when Kira reaches for it. “It’s nobody,” she insists. Kira looks at her friend expectantly. “If you must know - ” the banshee sighs “ - it’s just Deputy Parrish asking if I got home OK.”

Kira blinks. “Deputy Parrish has your phone number?”

“Yes,” Lydia says simply. “What did you find in my closet?”

Kira licks her lips, trying to decide if she should press her luck. But this friendship is so new, so tentative, she decides against it. She reluctantly hops off Lydia’s bed. “It’s OK if I try stuff on?” The banshee nods. Kira peels off her shirt. She’s standing there in her bra before she thinks to ask, “This isn’t weird, is it?”

Lydia snorts. “Only if you have the same slumber party fantasies as Scott and Stiles.” But she’s really too busy texting to pay attention to Kira.

The kitsune pulls the sweater over her head and surveys her reflection in Lydia’s mirror. She’s not sure teal’s her color. Still, she asks brightly, “What do you think?”

“I think - ” Lydia’s mouth falls slightly ajar. “Where’d you find that?” she whispers.

“In the back?” Kira says quizzically. “I thought you said - ”

“It’s Allison’s.”

And just like that, the weight of Lydia’s statement comes crashing down around Kira. She yanks the sweater off. “Oh my God,” she says, groping for a hanger, “I’m so sorry, Lydia, I didn’t - ”

“It’s fine. You didn’t know,” says Lydia, seizing the sweater before Kira can shove it back in the closet.

Kira shivers, looking around desperately for her own shirt. She knows this much: she won’t be invited back to Lydia’s anytime soon.

*           *           *

Parrish runs a finger lightly over the yellow-green bruise rising on his cheek, then shoves it in his mouth to check his tooth. Pain fires through his jaw. He drops a few choice expletives, ones he hasn’t had a reason to use since the desert. “Perfect,” he mutters. He wiggles the tooth with his tongue. “Ow, ow, ow - ”

The bathroom door swings open. Arroyo takes one look at Parrish and asks, “Want the name of my dentist?”

“This is the men’s room,” Parrish says darkly. She hadn’t laughed at him when the 17-year-old they were trying to arrest had punched him in the face, but he’s sure she’s come to add insult to injury.

“Relax, Parrish,” Arroyo says, holding up the first aid kit. She tucks it under her armpit so she can wash her hands. “I’m here to help.”

Parrish eyes the other deputy with suspicion as she straddles the long bench and slaps the seat next to her. “C’mon,” she says, beckoning him over, “you know I used to be a paramedic.”

“I thought you drove the ambulance,” says Parrish. He takes a cautious step forward. It still feels like a trap.

Arroyo glares at him, which oddly makes Parrish trust her more. “I think I can handle a split lip,” she huffs.

He scoots back, trying to relax his tense shoulders. He can’t. “Thanks,” he mutters. He needs something to do with his hands, so he grips the edge of the bench, watches the color fade from his knuckles.

Arroyo pops the plastic latch on the first aid kit. “You know how to take a punch,” she tells him.

It’s Parrish’s turn to glare. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugs, ripping into a packet of sterile gauze. “Just an observation,” she says, pressing the gauze to Parrish’s lip. “I was with Haines when that robbery suspect head-butted him last week. When he went down, he stayed down.”

He can’t exactly talk, so he gives her the side-eye. He’d been there, too. In fact, he’d driven the moaning deputy to Beacon Hills Memorial.

Arroyo continues, “You popped back up and slapped the other cuff on the kid’s wrists before he took a swing at me. You’re tougher than you look, Parrish.” She peels back the gauze.

There’s a long pause before Parrish clears his throat. “Thanks. I think.”

“You’re welcome.” Arroyo chucks the bloody bandage into the waste bin. “How’s your tooth?”

“Loose.”

She nods once, twice. “Call the workman’s comp line _before_ you go to the dentist, or it won’t be covered.”

It hadn’t even occurred to Parrish that this would. “OK,” he says. She dabs antibiotic ointment onto his lip. His tooth throbs. The conversation lapses into a slightly prickly silence.

That is, until Arroyo blurts, “Why did you tell the sheriff you wouldn’t talk to the prosecutor? You know he can’t make a case for - ”

“Trust me, Jo, last thing that kid needs is to be charged with assaulting an officer,” Parrish says. “I, uh, recognized him. He was on the lacrosse team. So was his brother. I had to tell his parents their other son was dead. But of course they already knew.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Parrish agrees.

“Well, I’m supposed to tell you to get out of here,” Arroyo says. “Stilinski’s orders.”

Parrish groans. He knows the sheriff isn’t happy with him at the moment. After Lydia screamed in the school parking lot, he’d stayed until she left with her mother. He’d been late for his shift, and an irritated John had assigned him to patrol with Arroyo rather than sending him out with Scott.

“Yeah, OK,” he mutters bitterly. It’s just another bad thing that’s happened today. Add it to the list of many.

Arroyo swings her leg over the bench so they’re facing in opposite directions. “You’re not a bad guy, Parrish.”

He leaves the station without saying a word to John, who’s talking to the deputy prosecutor with the blinds drawn. If the muffled shouts are any indication, it’s not going well. Parrish wonders if the kid they arrested, Kyle, is still crying bitter, angry tears back in his holding cell.

An October chill hangs in the air, and the air inside Parrish’s apartment is crisp when he unlocks the door. It’s been dropping into the 40s at night, unseasonably cool, but he hasn’t turned on the heat yet. He walks past the thermostat with Midwestern stubbornness and swaps his uniform for sweats.

He and Arroyo had peeled out of the drive-thru line at the Big Boy when the call came in about vandalism at the high school, so it’s with a growling stomach that Parrish scrounges through his cabinets for something soft. He’s considering eating soup straight from the can when there’s a faint knock at the door. He thinks for a second it might be a neighbor’s visitor when he hears it again. Parrish half-wonders if it’s Arroyo checking up on him - he can’t imagine who else would be calling so late - but when he hauls open the door, it’s Lydia who’s crying on his stoop.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. Parrish can’t help it. He reaches for her.

It’s all the invitation Lydia needs. She flings herself, sobbing, into his arms.

*           *           *

Lydia pulls her knees to her chest in one of the mismatched kitchen chairs as Parrish rummages through a cabinet. “You take cream and sugar, right?” he calls before emerging, face flushed. “Because I, uh, don’t have those things.”

“That’s fine,” Lydia murmurs, resting her cheek on her knee. She’s not quite sure why she’s here or what she’s going to say. She watches as he adds a splash of milk to one of the mugs, gives it a stir. “Thanks,” she says when Parrish sets it in front of her. There’s a logo for the Northminster Presbyterian Church on one side of the mug, an address in Ames, Iowa, on the back.

“Why are you here, Lydia? I thought - ” he shakes his head “ - I don’t know what I thought.”

Even in the low light, she can see his bruised cheek and split lip. He’s clearly had a rough night, and Lydia’s afraid she’s about to make it worse. She lets go of her legs and tucks her feet under her body. “How’d you get my number?”

He starts to run his thumb across his lip, winces, drops his hand to the table. His fingers drum absently. “I copied it down weeks ago from the sheriff’s phone,” he confesses. “He needed help installing an app, and I just - I went for it. Thought it might come in handy.” Parrish mutters this last part, clearly embarrassed. He takes a sip of his coffee. He drinks it black, Lydia notices. “I shouldn’t have invaded your privacy like that.”

Lydia clucks her tongue when she’s tired of watching him fidget. “So you know, I added you to my phone.”

“Yeah?”

Lydia pushes her phone across the table so he can see the _Deputy Parrish_ entry. She’d made it earlier after he texted to say he was sorry, he wouldn’t contact her again.

“You know,” he says, sliding her phone back, “you can call me Jordan.”

“Jordan,” Lydia repeats. She suspects the list of people who call him this is very short. “Jordan.” She changes it in her phone, at the same time kicking one leg out from under her. Beneath the table, her knee bumps his. His entire body tenses. “Kira came over after school,” she tells him. “She was going through my closet. She pulled out one of Allison’s sweaters. I’d forgotten it was there.”

“Allison,” Parrish says, a second before recognition flashes across his handsome face. “That’s - the girl who died. The carjackers.”

“There were no carjackers.”

He covers his mouth. “Of course not,” he mutters.

“She was my best friend,” Lydia continues. “We spent so much time together I can’t remember how her sweater got in my closet. Did she leave it there? Maybe I borrowed it. I don’t know why, though. It’s a nice enough sweater, but not really my style.” She takes a shuddering breath. “But I can’t give it back.”

She’s not expecting Parrish to rise from his chair. He doesn’t tell her where he’s going, just pads barefoot back to his bedroom and returns a minute later, something metallic in his hand. “Here,” he says, dropping the dog tags in front of her.

At first Lydia thinks she’s looking at Parrish’s own military ID. But then she reads the inscription:

_RIGGS_

_SETH M._

_123-02-4567_

_B NEG_

_CHRISTIAN_

“Was he - was he wearing them when he died?”

Parrish shakes his head. “Not these,” he says, and the way he tousles his hair is cute. “You can actually order as many sets as you want, you know, to give to your mom or your girlfriend. We had a buddy who got himself in trouble giving them out to three different girls back home in Georgia. You can imagine what happened after they found out what he’d done.” He chuckles, then clears his throat. “I drove out to Indiana to visit Seth’s mom when I got out of Walter Reed. She wanted me to have a set.”

Lydia outlines the chain on the table with her finger. “Do you know why I’m not touching them?” she says at last.

“Because you’re afraid of what you might see?” Parrish guesses.

She nods. “You were listening to Meredith’s confession tape in your car,” she says casually. “Is that what you wanted me to hear?”

“I think you screamed because you heard it.” This time, the hand he rakes through his hair isn’t cute. It’s nervous. “I crossed a line, Lydia. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you’re here now, but we both know I - ”

“You apologized,” Lydia interrupts. She stares at her hands, at her fingernails, which she hadn’t finished painting. She looks up at Parrish. “No one ever bothers to apologize to me.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Parrish takes Lydia’s hand in his. “Tell me about your scream,” he urges, thumb tracing a path from her ulnar to her radial pulse point.

“I used to think it predicted death,” Lydia admits, “but now I have it on good authority that it just drowns out the noise.”

She appreciates that he doesn’t ask for her source. “What noise?”

Lydia swallows, closing her eyes. Before she can lose her nerve, she snatches Seth’s dog tags from the table. She hears heavy breathing, combat boots stomping the sand. “C’mon, Parrish, a little farther - ”

That’s when the gunfire begins.

“Lydia!”

Parrish hovers over her, hand on her shoulder, green eyes wide with concern. He has to pry the dog tags out of her hand. One of his neighbors pounds on the shared wall. “You screamed.”

Lydia covers his hand with hers before he can pull away. “I’m sorry I woke your neighbors.”

He’s trying to look anywhere but her lips. “Don’t worry,” he mutters, “they’re assholes.”

Finally, she lets him slip back to his seat. “I could hear the gunshots,” she says quietly. “I hear them all the time. Not ... gunshots, but the sounds of death. I don’t want to listen. I try not to. But it’s so loud sometimes. That’s usually when I find a body.”

“So you’re not a harbinger of death at all,” Parrish says, picking her hand back up. “It’s - you’re a conduit.”

His touch is reassuring. “You know how I told you I kept showing up at the hospital after the bus crash?” Parrish nods. “This is going to sound crazy, but there’s this room? It’s all white, with overhead fluorescent lights. It’s where - it’s part of Stiles’ subconscious, I guess. I thought that if I could just hold off, if I could just not scream, he’d eventually leave it. But there was - he almost died on the table. He was back on the vent, and I couldn’t not scream. Except when I did, he didn’t die. He - he woke up.”

“That’s when you had me look up death certificates.”

Lydia nods. “I know. It’s nuts.”

“It’s not nuts. I believe you, Lydia. OK? I don’t think it’s nuts. I don’t think you’re - ”

“I think whatever happened to Meredith is happening to me,” Lydia blurts.

“Come again?”

She squeezes his fingers. He squeezes back. “I wasn’t always a banshee. A werewolf bit me, and it either changed me or activated something inside I didn’t know about before. Everything I’ve read about banshees makes me think it was the same for Meredith. She had surgery to remove a brain tumor, and she woke up hearing voices. She couldn’t handle it, and she killed her entire family.”

There’s a pause. “I still don’t think Meredith killed her family,” Parrish confesses. “There’s this moment on the tape - ”

“ - where she blames someone else,” Lydia finishes, a lump rising in her throat. “I know. I heard in the parking lot. Maybe - maybe you could play it for me?”

His cell phone screen is cracked, she notices, when he pulls it out of his pocket. He cues up the track, and an anguished wail plays on the tinny speakers. “Hold on,” says Parrish. “That’s not it.”

_“He said he could help me. He said he’d teach me how to control my powers. But all he did was turn up the volume. There was so much noise. I couldn’t tune it out. All I could do was scream. And when I didn’t stop, he killed them.”_

“Again,” Lydia orders.

_“He said he could help me. He said he’d teach me how to control my powers. But all he did was turn up the volume. There was so much noise. I couldn’t tune it out. All I could do was scream. And when I didn’t stop, he killed them.”_

“So you heard it?” Parrish wants to know. “You heard her saying someone else killed her family when she wouldn’t stop screaming?”

She looks at him strangely. “Of course I heard it. It’s - ”

“Lydia, dozens of people have listened to this tape, including Agent McCall this afternoon. Do you know what he said to me? ‘Sounds like a crying girl. You feeling all right, Parrish?’ So either we’ve found something every cop, prosecutor and judge in Butte County missed, or - or - ”

“ - or there’s something on the tape only we can hear,” she finishes. She stares at the deputy.

“I don’t know,” Parrish says, a hand tangled in his dark hair. “I don’t think I’m a banshee, but - ”

“You’re not,” Lydia interrupts. She forces a smile. “Only women can be banshees.” He still looks skeptical, so she leans forward and lets her fingers brush his bruised cheek. “What happened to you today, Jordan?”

He pulls her hand away. “Teenage vandal resisting arrest,” he chokes.

“Hmm,” says Lydia. There’s a part of her that wants to tease him, wants to see him squirm. But he hadn’t made fun of her when she told him about the white room, and that’s worth something. “Kira told me Scott and the sheriff didn’t find anything. No bodies Scott could smell, at any rate.”

“That’s good, though, right? Because the scream - ”

The buzz of a cell phone interrupts him. _Sheriff Stilinski_ flashes on his screen. “Parrish.” There’s a pause. He frowns. “No, we didn’t search the car.” Another pause, then Parrish is on the edge of his seat. “You found _what?”_ he says sharply.

He’s pale when he hangs up a minute later. “That was the sheriff,” he says unnecessarily, still staring at his phone. “The kid we arrested, there were bloody clothes in the back of his car. And apparently he was suspended a couple months ago for punching Principal Thomas.”

“He sure likes to punch people,” Lydia quips, chest tightening. Here she managed to convince someone her scream wasn’t dangerous, only to have bloody clothes turn up. “Does he want you to come in?”

“No.”

He’s tracing his jaw with his thumb again, she notices. “Then can I stay?”

Lydia knows he’ll turn her down. But she’s not expecting the pregnant pause during which Parrish honestly considers it. “No,” he says at last. “C’mon. I’ll take you home.”

He lets go of her hand.

*           *           *

Scott sets his jaw when he sees Ms. DeGraf, the mousy English teacher, walking outside with Coach’s clipboard.

“No way she’s Coach’s replacement,” says an incredulous Jack Winters, one of the few lacrosse players who’s running cross country this season. “She’s - ”

“ - our new coach,” Scott finishes, irritated. “What did you expect?” Finstock’s mugshot had been on the front page of Sunday’s paper. The whole town knows about his DUI.

The junior casts a sidelong glance at Scott. “You need to chill, McCall,” he says evenly. “I’m just - ”

It’s not until Ms. DeGraf blows her whistle that Scott realizes he has a fistful of Jack’s jersey. He lets go at once, swallowing hard. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

 _“What do you think you’re doing?”_ Ms. DeGraf demands, wedging herself between them as Jack smooths his shirt. He glares at Scott.

“I don’t have time for this,” Scott declares, and he stalks off.

“Scott - ”

“Just let him go,” someone tells Ms. DeGraf.

Someone else says, “Is it just me, or has McCall turned into a real asshat?”

It’s Malia who snarls, _“Shut up.”_

No one comes after him.

In the locker room, Scott splashes cold water on his face. He hadn’t meant to rough anyone up, but it’s the full moon. “You need to calm down,” he tells his reflection. The werewolf in the mirror doesn’t smile.

He half-considers asking Kira to ditch her SAT prep class, but he doesn’t want to risk upsetting the Yukimuras, not when there’s been a noticeable drop off in dinner invitations lately. So Scott rides aimlessly for a while, ends up at the hospital. He’s about to gun it, then figures _what the hell_ and decides to say hi to his mom.

Except that backfires a little, too, because the parking lot is being repaved and there’s nowhere to put his bike anywhere near the emergency department. Scott finally finds a spot on the other side of the sprawling campus, by the rehabilitation center.

Where Derek’s car occupies one of the handicapped spaces. Because Stiles has PT three times a week.

Scott’s still having trouble wrapping his head around the fact that Stiles is spending time with the other werewolf voluntarily. That’s probably why he ends up drumming his fingers on the receptionist’s desk in the mostly-empty rehabilitation center. Scott tells himself it’s not weird that he’s just dropping in. He’s there to support Stiles.

Scott gives it a minute, but when no one greets him, he closes his eyes and listens for his best friend. He hears a bouncing ball, a squeaky tennis shoe, the familiar click of a microprocessor knee.

Stiles’ voice is low, barely audible. “You know,” he teases, “I’m like six inches away from making a dick joke.”

It’s heartening to hear the smirk in Stiles’ voice. But Scott’s ill-prepared to hear Derek sass back, “Six, huh?” The alpha chokes. “This time, turn toward me.”

“Oh, come on,” Stiles complains as Scott hustles back. “That’s it? I spent half of English thinking about ways to get out of the ‘but next time you should really buy me dinner’ genre.”

“I’m so glad my tax dollars help pay for your education,” Derek drawls.

“You pay taxes?”

Now Scott sees them, Stiles flat on his back on the exercise table, shoulder pinned down by one of Derek’s hands. Scott clears his throat. Two heads whip up, the smile sliding right off Derek’s face.

“Uh, hey,” says Scott, shoving his hands in his pockets. “There wasn’t anyone up front, so I just came back.”

Stiles tries unsuccessfully to sit up, Derek’s hand still pinning him to the table. “I didn’t know you were coming,” he says at last, tugging his shorts down over his stump.

“You don’t mind, right?” Scott asks, running his thumb across his bottom lip. There’s something different about Stiles, and that’s when Scott notices the buzzcut. Stiles’ hair had been long when Scott had seen him, albeit in passing, Friday night.

Derek seems determined to ignore the alpha. “Three more,” he tells Stiles.

To Scott’s surprise, Stiles agrees. “Three more,” he says, drawing his right knee to his chest. He exhales slowly, then flexes his sock-clad stump.

“Hold it,” says Derek. “Again.” Stiles winces. Scott shifts his weight from one foot to the other. _This was a bad idea._ “One more.”

Stiles flops loose-limbed against the table when he’s done, then lifts a fist. “Right here, big guy,” he pants.

The door to the rehabilitation center must have opened into another dimension because there’s no way Derek returns Stiles’ fist bump. Except he does. He offers Stiles a hand, pulling the teen into a sitting position on the table.

“Who’s this?”

If Scott had to guess, Stiles’ physical therapist is in her late 20s or early 30s, arms folded over her polo and eyeing him suspiciously. He’s about to introduce himself when Stiles claps him on the back. “This is my boy Scotty. He’s the best friend I’ve been telling you about.” He leaves his arm slung around Scott’s shoulders, which under normal circumstances would make the alpha feel less like an intruder.

But Derek continues to glare as Scott extends his hand. “Scott McCall.”

“Bridget Townsend,” Stiles’ therapist says briskly, shaking his hand firmly. “You’re staying?” The alpha casts a sidelong glance at Stiles, who nods. “That’s fine, but my rule is you help Stiles or stay out of his way. Got it?”

“Got it,” Scott echoes. _Sounds easy enough._

“Don your leg, Stiles,” says Bridget, jerking her chin.

Scott figures he’ll watch - he’s only seen Stiles with the leg off or already on - but Derek has other ideas. As soon as Stiles reaches for his prosthesis, Derek’s steering Scott around a maze of exercise equipment.

“What are you doing here?” the other werewolf growls.

He’s easy enough to shrug off. “Being supportive,” Scott replies, glaring at his beta. “You’re the one who keeps telling me I need to be there for him.”

“And it didn’t occur to you that he might not want you to see him at his most vulnerable?” Derek prods Scott hard in the back of the ribs. _“Listen.”_

“Say the word, Stiles,” Bridget is saying, “and I’ll ask Scott to leave.”

“No, no,” Stiles says at once, but Scott can hear his friend’s heart drumming faster, faster. “He’s fine. He can stay.”

“I know you don’t want to be the bad guy - ”

“I _said,_ he can stay.”

At this, Scott hangs his head. He knows Stiles knows he’s listening. “I’ll just - ”

But now Derek’s dragging him _back_ to Stiles. “Nope,” he hisses in Scott’s ear. “You want to see what it’s like for him? Go. You’ll figure it out pretty quick.”

Bridget is tying a rainbow-striped belt around Stiles’ waist. She beckons Scott over. “Stiles is still working on balance,” she says, grabbing Scott’s hand and tucking it near the knot. “You’re going to help him walk to the parallel bars.”

Scott forces a smile. “Nice belt,” he says.

The tips of Stiles’ ears turn red. “Shut up.”

Usually Stiles wears sweatpants or loose-fitting jeans over his prosthetic leg. But now it’s poking out of Stiles’ bunched-up gym shorts like a prop from a sci-fi movie. Scott had been surprised the day Stiles brought it home. He’d been expecting something flesh-colored and doll-like, not a metal ankle and stenciled letters where Stiles’ calf should be. With his brutally short hair, Stiles looks more like a war hero than a high school senior.

At least, until he takes his first step.

“Sorry,” Stiles mutters, quickly peeling himself off Scott’s chest after he pitches forward. “It takes me a second sometimes.”

“Keep your knee straight, Stiles,” Bridget calls, which only makes Stiles blush more furiously.

Scott can feel his own cheeks starting to burn. “You’re fine,” he says quickly, tightening his grip on the belt. “You’re - ”

It’s not like he _means_ to knock the wind out of Stiles, but that’s what happens when his friend stumbles and Scott yanks a little too hard on the therapy belt.

“Derek, take over.”

The other man elbows Scott out of the way. “You OK?” he asks Stiles, voice low.

Stiles waves his hand. “Fine,” he squeaks.

Derek looks like he wants to murder Scott. But his tone is light when he coaxes Stiles, “C’mon, you know how to do this.”

“Damn right I do,” Stiles mutters, planting his sneaker-clad prosthetic foot on the floor. He lurches forward, shoulder ramming Derek’s chest, but he doesn’t fall. “Like I said, it takes me a second.”

Now Bridget is nodding enthusiastically. “Watch your posture, Stiles, but you’re doing great.” She whispers to Scott, “Don’t take it personally.”

But it’s hard not to, not when Stiles is spitting out well-practiced insults under his breath as he scoots along after Derek. They reach the parallel bars in no time, and much to Scott’s chagrin, Derek actually _laughs,_ head thrown back and eyes twinkling like he actually finds Stiles’ jokes amusing.

“Thanks, Derek,” says Bridget, clapping him on the back. At this, Derek’s shoulders tense. “OK, Stiles, pelvic rotations.”

Stiles is wiggling his hips like a hula girl when Derek asks Scott out of the corner of his mouth, “Do you get it yet?”

“Get what?” Scott mutters back, watching Stiles lose his balance when Bridget asks him to step sideways. He bites his lip. “He’s not making much progress, is he?”

Derek crosses his arms. “What makes you say that?”

Stiles’ knee buckles. _“Motherfucker.”_

“He’s still using crutches,” Scott says, ticking off reasons,  “he’s slower with the leg than without it, he keeps - ”

But Scott falters under Derek’s gaze. The werewolf holds up both hands, fingers spread except for a thumb, still flat against his palm.

Scott shakes his head. “I don’t get it,” he mouths when he realizes Stiles has stopped cursing. He can practically feel his best friend’s eyes on them.

“Nine.”

“What?”

Derek stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Nine surgeries,” he whispers back. “He had nine surgeries. In case you’ve forgotten.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Scott says hotly, a little louder than he intended. Not only does Stiles look up, but so does a preteen girl on the other side of the therapy center. Scott realizes with a start she’s also missing her leg. Her prosthesis is hot pink, not grey like Stiles’.

But the truth is, Scott never counted. The long weeks Stiles spent in the hospital blur together in Scott’s memories, an endless stream of operations and close calls. “I thought he’d be walking by now, that’s all,” Scott mumbles.

“Give him time,” Derek grunts.

By the end of his session, Stiles is covered in a thin sheen of sweat, exhaustion leaking from every pore. Scott gamely throws an arm around his friend anyway, playfully punching Stiles’ shoulder. He raves, “Dude, you were great.”

But Stiles must see right through Scott’s faux-enthusiasm because he lets Scott’s fist dangle, no bump.

“Hey Stiles!”

That’s when Scott realizes his friend isn’t ignoring him but rather waving to the girl with the pink prosthesis. Scott swallows hard as the pair of them exchange high-fives. She doesn’t even look old enough to be in high school.

“Hey, Taylor,” says Stiles, leaning heavily on his crutches. “Learn anything interesting today?”

Instead of answering, Taylor takes three steps back, then three steps forward. She grins.

“Show off.”

“Don’t worry,” Taylor tells Stiles seriously, “you’ll get there.”

At this, Stiles snorts. “Well, if I don’t see you before next week, have fun on Halloween, OK? I know you’ll rock your flamingo costume.”

At this, Taylor positively beams. “Bye, Stiles!” she calls, taking her mom’s hand and giving him a little wave.

“Stiles is very popular with the under-14 set,” Derek informs Scott, corners of his mouth curling up.

Scott listens until he can’t hear the click of Taylor’s knee. “What happened to her?”

“Osteosarcoma,” says Stiles. Scott continues to stare at his friend. “Uh, bone cancer. They had to amputate her leg last year.”

“Oh.” And, tentatively, he asks, “You guys are ... friends?”

Stiles shrugs, swinging forward on his crutches as Derek holds the door open for him. “I mean, we see each other three times a week.”

“Plant your foot, Stiles,” Derek reminds the teen. Stiles flushes ever so slightly.

Scott stares at the handicapped placard hanging from the rearview mirror of Derek’s SUV. “Hey, uh, about Friday,” he says, shoving his hands in his pocket, “I’m sorry we all had to bail.”

Stiles is concentrating so hard on his footwork it takes him a second to respond. “What? Oh, it’s cool. I know alpha things take priority.”

There’s something Scott doesn’t like about the way his best friend says _alpha things._ “Well, what are you doing on Wednesday? Kira still has five pumpkins rolling around in the back of her car. I know Mom won’t - ”

“Uh, Scotty,” Stiles interrupts, “Wednesday’s Halloween.”

“So?”

“So?” says Stiles, casting a sidelong glance at Derek that Scott also doesn’t like. “Hello, sheriff’s kid? Have you forgotten how I get stuck passing out candy every year because Dad’s convinced it deters mischief makers?”

Scott’s careful not to let his gaze flicker to Stiles’ missing leg. “OK, we’ll do it at your house.”

Stiles turns to Derek. “Want to come over?”

Scott waits for the other werewolf to politely decline. But what Derek says is, “Sounds fun.”

Stiles manages to haul himself into the passenger seat with minimal assistance from Derek. “I’ll see you Wednesday?”

Scott nods. “Yeah,” he says, brow furrowed. “I’ll see you Wednesday.”

*           *           *

The sun hasn’t quite set when Derek hears the first of the trick-or-treaters coming up the Stilinskis’ walk. He grabs the candy bowl and opens the door before the pint-sized witch can ring the broken doorbell.

“Trick or treat!” the little girl says, her younger brother trailing behind her, clad in some kind of a furry grey suit. “I’m a princess witch!”

“A princess witch, huh?” says Derek, crouching down so she can see the assortment of candy Stiles picked out. Her eyes grow wide, then zero in on the Kit Kats. “And what’s he?”

“Tell him what you are, Noah,” she says in a bossy voice that reminds Derek at once of Laura. In fact, he feels a little like he’s looking into a mirror to 20 years ago, the first Halloween they’d been allowed to trick-or-treat in town. It’s a little punch to the gut.

Noah musters a shy smile. “I’m a - ” he’s missing all of his front teeth _“ - woof.”_

“How could I be so silly? Of _course_ you’re a werewolf.” Derek motions the kids closer as he listens to Stiles clack down the hallway on his crutches. “Pick out whatever you want,” he tells them.

“Can we take more than one?” the girl wants to know.

Her mother calls sharply, “Lindsey!”

Lindsey puts back the second Kit Kat. “Thank you,” she says primly. When he’s sure her mom isn’t watching, Derek picks it back up and drops it in her basket. He holds a finger to his lips.

It’s Noah’s cue to grab a couple Butterfingers and scurry off after his sister.

There’s an amused sort of smile on Stiles’ face when Derek turns to face him. “You might want to pace yourself,” he drawls. “We get _a lot_ of trick-or-treaters. Like, a lot a lot.”

Derek swats back Stiles’ hand when he reaches for the bowl. “You know what happens to those one piece of candy sticklers? Their houses get egged.”

Stiles looks like he desperately wants to ask if Derek’s ever egged a house, but before he can, a pair of ballerinas are pressing their faces against the glass. Derek makes them twirl for their candy and sends them each off with two pieces.

They’re not even past the Jeep before Stiles sighs wistfully. “Mom approved wholeheartedly of the houses that made trick-or-treaters work for their candy,” he says. “Did you guys get that many trick or -”

“No,” says Derek quickly, hoping to shut down Stiles’ line of questioning. Halloween was Laura’s favorite holiday. She’d had a reputation at the co-op for passing out the best treats, though she always made the dancers dance and the witches cackle and the werewolves howl -

Outside, a car door slams. A minute later, Scott barrels in, a pumpkin under each arm.

“There’s a gang of trick-or-treaters headed up the walk,” the alpha informs Stiles before heading back out for the rest of the pumpkins.

Derek slings out an arm to stop Stiles from limping after Scott. “Relax,” he tells the teen. “Kira has it.”

The kitsune appears, giggling, a minute later, wearing a pair of cat ears with whiskers painted on her cheeks. She hugs Stiles tightly. “We picked up your movies,” she tells him.

Except there must be something objectionable about the DVDs because Stiles makes a face of utter revulsion. “What is this?” he demands, waving one of the cases at Scott before he’s even had a chance to drop off the rest of the pumpkins.

The alpha plunks all three down unceremoniously. “Stiles, it’s ‘The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.’ You _asked_ us to pick it up.”

“Scott,” Stiles says petulantly, “this is most certainly _not_ ‘The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.’ This is a subpar 2003 remake that was universally panned by critics.”

But it’s clear from Scott’s shrug he couldn’t care less. “It’s a horror movie, Stiles.”

Stiles is still huffing and puffing about it ten minutes later when Lydia and Malia arrive with pizza. It’s fully dark now, so Derek shuffles off to dole out candy to miniature ghosts and goblins as the teens bicker about toppings. He waits until Stiles stops protesting - “Who thought putting barbecue sauce on pizza was a good idea?” - and starts chewing before returning to the kitchen. He helps himself to what’s left, a couple of slices of pepperoni and a veggie supreme.

It’s not until Kira’s clearing empty plates and crumpled napkins to make room for pumpkin carving that she realizes her mistake. “Uh oh,” she says, eyes darting nervously to the pumpkins. “We only have five.”

“That’s fine,” Derek says automatically. After all, he’s the one crashing a high school party. “I don’t - ”

“He can have mine,” Lydia interrupts. “I don’t like touching pumpkin guts, anyway.” And she slinks off to man the door.

Scott’s tasked with moving the living room TV so they can watch “Ghostbusters” while they carve. Derek decides the right thing to do is to relieve the banshee of door duty so she can hang out with her friends, but when he goes to suggest this, she waves him off. She’s texting furiously, Derek notices.

Back in the kitchen, Kira and Stiles are spreading old issues of the Beacon Hills Chronicle on the table. Stiles, Derek notices, yanks the editorial page from Sunday’s paper and flattens it out. A bold-faced headline declares, **“Stilinski clearly not up to the job.”** As soon as he cuts into his pumpkin, Stiles throws a fistful of pumpkin guts at the op-ed. They land with a wet plop.

Derek stares at his own pumpkin for a minute before getting started. He’d purposely chosen the smallest, most misshapen one to carve. Laura had always picked the ugly ones at the pumpkin patch. “It’s not fair that they don’t get to fulfill their Halloween destiny because they’re not pretty,” she had told him solemnly once. He’s not sure how old he had been. Cora hadn’t been born yet, but Peter _had_ begrudgingly come along, so Derek couldn’t have been older than 5.

He decides he’ll carve Laura in her alpha form, howling at the moon.

“Are you - are you carving with your _claws?”_ Stiles asks, incredulous.

Derek’s not sure how he got so engrossed in his pumpkin, but judging by how far into the movie they are - Dana’s refrigerator just became a portal to hell - at least a half-hour has passed. Next to him, Stiles is diligently following the Wolfman pattern he’d printed off that afternoon. “Yes,” Derek grunts, flicking a claw expertly across his pumpkin.

Across the table, Scott drops the little plastic saw he's been using and stands, craning his neck to watch what Derek's doing. “You didn't tell me claws were an option,” he complains, a determined look on his face as he flicks his own claws. Next to him, Kira giggles. Derek resists the urge to roll his eyes.

Stiles’ knee knocks Derek’s. “Hey,” he says quietly, “that’s really good.”

Another grunt. “Thanks.” Derek’s not sure what makes him volunteer, “We did this every year.”

“Us too.”

On Derek’s other side, Malia is holding the little orange carving knife Scott discarded, eyes darting between it and her own extended claws.

Derek takes a deep breath. “Do you want me to show you?”

Malia’s chin jerks up. “No,” she says quickly, making a fist. When she unfurls it, she’s retracted her claws. She chews the end of her tongue as she jabs the carving tool back into the pumpkin. Derek feels a little deflated, if he’s being honest. He’d hoped to win Malia’s trust by telling her about their family. But the werecoyote has hardly said two words all evening, apart from asking Lydia if it was OK to finish the banshee’s uneaten pizza.

“Hey Derek,” Scott starts hopefully, “if you're giving out lessons - ”

“You’re the alpha,” Derek says with a shrug. “You figure it out.”

Stiles snorts so hard he almost slashes Wolfman's face. He throws down his knife. “Hey,” he says, picking up his empty soda can. "Anyone else need anything?"

Wordlessly, Derek passes Stiles his crutches. He wiggles his can at the rest of the group, the last mouthful of soda sloshing around. “No? No takers?”

Kira rises from her seat. “I’ll go with you,” she says brightly, either ignoring or missing the daggers Derek glares at her completely.

Stiles doesn’t move. “The fridge is literally fifteen feet away,” he points out.

At this, the kitsune looks wounded. “I just thought - ”

“I can do things for myself, you know,” says Stiles, annoyed. He swings across the kitchen on his crutches. He’s not putting weight on his prosthesis again, but Derek doesn’t think it’s the right time to correct him.

Stiles is halfway to the fridge when Lydia calls, “Stiles, you’re out of candy!”

At once, Derek starts to rise from his seat, which works out because Stiles tries to reach for one of the unopened bags on the counter and almost loses his balance.

It’s a rough catch, but Derek manages to keep Stiles from falling on his face.

For this supernatural effort, Derek gets a glare. “Not you, too,” Stiles says hotly, swiping a bag of candy and holding it out for Lydia to grab.

He doesn’t get another Coke and he doesn’t say another word to anyone until the credits roll. Kira cradles her Hello Kitty pumpkin and asks, “Does anyone need more time?”

As if on cue, Scott's pumpkin half-collapses. The alpha sighs. “No, I'm done.”

“Maybe - ” Kira licks her lips nervously “ - we could all get a picture with our pumpkins?”

Derek nudges Stiles. “Grab a lighter,” he says, scooping a jack-o’-lantern under each arm.

The teen runs a hand over his head. He’d buzzed his hair sometime between Saturday morning, when his dad had finally gotten home from the station, and Monday afternoon, when Derek picked Stiles up at school. Derek hadn’t asked, though he’d been strangely disappointed when Stiles had gotten in the car.

“You’re actually trusting me to do something?” Stiles asks suspiciously.

“Grab a lighter,” Derek says again.

The kitsune puts herself in charge of arranging the pumpkins while Scott surreptitiously drops his over the fence. Derek knows there’s no love lost between the Stilinskis and the older woman who lives next door. Stiles chuckles. “Good one, Scotty,” he says, high-fiving the alpha.

Scott doesn’t smile.

“OK, everyone get in there with their pumpkins,” Kira pleads. No one moves but Lydia, to answer a text. If Derek’s not mistaken, it’s from Parrish, though the banshee is quick to pocket her phone. He makes a mental note. “C’mon guys, it’s one picture.”

Finally, Derek takes charge. “Here,” he says, hooking Stiles under the armpits. “You need to pick your foot off the ground.”

“Which one?”

“The left one,” says Derek, trying not to let irritation creep into his voice.

“That’s not my foot,” Stiles says sourly, but he does what Derek asks. It’s when the werewolf tries to take a step back that things get tricky. Stiles tugs on Derek’s henley sleeve. “Oh no, you’re not going anywhere.”

Kira bribes a passing goblin with extra candy to take their picture. “On three,” says the kid. “One, two - ”

The kitsune springs up to grab her camera. “Malia,” she laments, “can’t you do something about your eyes? And Derek, you could have at least _tried_ to smile.”

Now that the stream of trick-or-treaters has slowed to a trickle, they all pile on the couch to watch “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.” Derek ends up next to Stiles, knocking shoulders with the teen as he grabs the remote and pushes play. “Who’s ready for some senseless gore?” Stiles asks half-heartedly.

Derek winces as the hitchhiker shoots herself on screen. He remembers sneaking into this movie with Paige years ago. Ten minutes in, she’d declared the movie “too gory,” and they’d gone back to “Freaky Friday” to make out.

Lydia, who’s sitting with Malia on the floor, wrinkles her nose in disgust, but she doesn’t flinch the way Kira does. The werecoyote just crooks her head.

“Oh, come on. _That’s_ how they’re using the hitchhiker?” Stiles complains. “It’s supposed to be - ”

“Are you going to spend the _entire_ movie complaining about how it’s not like the original?” Scott interrupts.

“ _Yes_ ,” Stiles spits. But mostly he settles on glowering next to Derek, arms crossed as the first of Leatherface’s victims falls.

Later, as the movie villain chases one of the dumbass protagonists through the hanging laundry, the werewolf realizes a second too late what’s about to happen. He’s on his feet as Leatherface sinks the chainsaw into the character’s thigh, slicing it cleanly. The severed leg flashes unpleasantly on the TV for a half-second before Derek can wrestle the remote away from Stiles.

It takes Scott a second to untangle his limbs from Kira’s. “Stiles,” he says, eyes flickering from the onscreen gore to his best friend, who’s bent forward with his head between his knees, “are you - ”

“Get out,” Derek orders, but it’s too late. Stiles pukes up candy corn and three slices of pizza all over the living room carpet. Malia makes a face, scrambling away so fast she bumps into Lydia.

“Come on,” says Lydia, dragging the werecoyote to her feet. “Feel better, Stiles.”

Derek can hear Kira in the kitchen, grabbing paper towels and rummaging through the cabinets for cleaning supplies. Scott, to his credit, tries to apologize. “Stiles,” he says miserably, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I had no - ”

Derek shakes his head. “Just go,” he tells the alpha. “I’ll handle it.”

Scott looks uncertain, but Kira grabs his arm. “Scott, he’s right,” she says, and they leave.

The hand Derek places on Stiles’ back is tentative. “Are you going to be sick again?” The teen, still doubled over, shakes his head. “Tell me if you are. I’ll get you to the bathroom.”

He throws a wad of paper towels down and is about to reach for the carpet cleaner Kira set out when Stiles’ hand closes on his elbow. “No,” the teen musters. “Don’t.”

“Talk to me, Stiles.”

“I had no idea,” Stiles mutters. “There’s no - that scene with the leg - it’s not in the original.”

“I’d gathered,” Derek says dryly, and he brushes over Stiles’ fingers with his hands. “C’mon, let go so I can get this cleaned up.”

“You don’t have to - ” Stiles protests, but he releases his grip on Derek’s arm. He doesn’t sit back up until the werewolf has the worst of it mopped up. “You don’t have to stay.”

 _Yes, I do._ “Do you want to talk about it?”

Stiles laughs, high and nervous. “Dude, I just puked in front of all my friends.”

Derek flickers his tongue, trying to wet his dry mouth. “After the fire,” he says, voice hitching, “after the fire, the smell of burning leaves would make me sick to my stomach.”

Stiles looks skeptical. “Did you ever throw up?”

“Once or twice.” Derek clears his throat. “I’m going to get you a glass of water.”

Once again, Stiles’ grip is ironclad when Derek tries to stand. “Did it look like that?”

Derek frowns. “Did what look like that?”

But the words are no sooner out of his mouth than he realizes exactly what the teen is asking. “My leg,” says Stiles, “did it look anything like the movie?”

“I’m not going to answer that,” Derek says at once, remembering all too well Stiles’ scream as the paramedics cut into his mangled leg. He stands up, side-stepping the puddle of sick. “Get up.”

“Derek - ”

“Without your crutches.”

Stiles blinks. “I can either get up with my crutches or continue sitting right here on this couch,” he insists. “Your choice.”

“No, you’re going to get up without your crutches,” says Derek. He’s tired of watching Stiles limp along on his crutches, seemingly unwilling to put any weight on his prosthesis. “You want to walk again? Walk.”

Stiles’ heart is beating very fast. “I don’t know,” he says slowly. “Bridget says - ”

“You tell Bridget to go to hell three times a week, Stiles,” Derek points out. “Who cares what she says? Get up, Stiles.”

A long minute passes. Derek’s starting to lose confidence in his half-cocked plan when suddenly Stiles grabs the werewolf by the forearms. “I’m going to fall on my ass,” he complains, but he’s up, he’s on his feet.

“No, you’re not,” Derek promises, helping Stiles navigate around the coffee table. “I won’t let you.”

“How is this any different from clinging to my crutches?” Stiles wants to know. “I’m just clinging - ”

“You won’t be when I get you out in the open,” Derek interrupts. He stops short, and Stiles bumps into his chest. “Pretend it’s PT.”

“I’m not ready,” Stiles pants. “Derek, I’m not - ” He tries to grab Derek’s bicep for balance, but the werewolf retreats at the last second, forcing Stiles to close the distance between them.

Sure enough, he almost falls. Derek steadies him. “Try again.”

“Derek - ”

But the werewolf leaves Stiles no choice but to shuffle forward. “No,” Derek growls. “You need to pick your foot up. Remember what Bridget keeps saying.”

“I’m not strong enough. Derek, I’m not - ”

But Stiles takes a tentative step. This time, he doesn’t fall. “Another.”

Stiles winces as he does. “C’mon, Derek, don’t make me - ”

“You did this last week,” Derek cuts in.

“That was three steps!” Stiles protests. “And Bridget was there to catch me.”

“I’m here to catch you,” says Derek, and he does when Stiles starts to fall. “See?”

But Stiles doesn’t follow when Derek backs up. In fact, he crosses his arms. “What’s in it for me?”

Derek increases the distance between them. “The satisfaction of _being able to walk_ isn’t enough?”

It takes Stiles four cautious steps to cover the distance Derek does in two. “I’m going to fall,” Stiles insists, heavily favoring his right side.

“How many times do I have to tell you,” Derek chides, “I’m not going to let that happen?”

“But you keep getting farther away!”

It’s true. Derek’s backed up almost to the wall. He rolls his eyes. “I’m a werewolf, Stiles. Super speed?”

But he doesn’t need it. Stiles makes the last three or so feet. “Don’t make me walk all the way back to the couch,” he begs, hanging onto Derek for dear life.

The werewolf arches an eyebrow. Challenge accepted. “Think you can’t do it?”

Stiles is almost as tall as Derek, but the way he’s hunched over forces him to look up to meet the werewolf’s eyes. “It’s not easy, OK?”

“I know,” says Derek, and he lets go of Stiles.

“OK, OK!” the teen squeaks. “Just - don’t let me faceplant, all right? My dignity’s suffered enough.”

“You’re not going to faceplant,” Derek promises.

“And don’t get so far away this time,” says Stiles. His Adam’s apple bobs. “Seriously, Derek. It freaks me out.”

The werewolf softens. “I won’t be more than an arm’s length away,” he tells the teen, and they set off, slowly trekking back across the kitchen. This time, he only has to catch Stiles once.

It’s not until the teen’s lowering himself back onto the couch that Derek notices the beads of sweat on Stiles’ forehead. “Shit, Derek,” he pants.

“You realize what you just did, right?” Derek asks, folding his arms. _“You walked.”_

“Yeah,” says Stiles crossly. _“It was hard.”_

“It’ll get easier.”

Stiles glares at him. “Easy for you to say.”

Derek shrugs. “We’ll just have to keep working at it.”

“Me. I’m the one that has to keep working at it,” Stiles says darkly.

Right. Red-faced, Derek says, “I mean, I’m not going anywhere. I’m here as long you need me.”

Stiles snorts, and he reaches for hair that isn’t there anymore, fingers twisting in the air before he drops his hand to his side. Frustrated, he says, “So I walked. Big deal. It’s going to be months of this, Derek, months and months of - ”

“You’ve made it this far,” Derek interjects. He takes a seat next to the teen, drops his elbows to his knees as he clasps his hands in front of him. “You buzzed your hair again,” he says casually.

Stiles blows out a mouthful of air. “Yeah,” he says, like he’s agreeing to something.

“Any particular reason?”

One of Stiles’ shoulders scrunches. “Yeah,” he says thoughtfully. “It’s dumb, though.”

“Try me.”

Stiles bites his lip. “I felt like - don’t you think I should have found out about Finstock’s DUI from my dad or Scott, not the front page of the newspaper?” It’s a rhetorical question. “Dad actually tried to hide it from me. He folded up the paper real quick, though not before I saw the mug shot.” Stiles covers his mouth, rubs his chin. “I was furious. I yelled at him, told him he won’t be able to shelter me forever. So I storm back to my room, and I got to thinking about how many people’s lives were ruined because of the bus crash, and - and - ”

There’s a funny feeling in the pit of Derek’s stomach. “And?” he prompts gently.

“And I had a panic attack,” Stiles admits. “When I finally stopped hyperventilating - I don’t know. I wanted to punish myself, I guess.” He barks out a bitter laugh. Then, quietly, he says, “I don’t feel like I have any right to complain, not when guys like Danny - not when - ” Derek pretends not to see the way Stiles swipes at his eyes. “Anyway. It’s just hair. It’ll grow back.”

A minute passes. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

It’s not just the lingering smell of vomit that’s making Derek queasy. “Sometimes,” he says quietly, “I feel like - Scott and I had no right to do what we did.”

“What d’you mean?”

Derek shakes his head. He thinks of his father, who’d also bravely rejected the bite. “Werewolves aren’t supposed to interfere like we did. Taking your pain, keeping you alive - it isn’t natural. It isn’t right.”

He’s not expecting Stiles’ defiant glare. “Gee, thanks,” the teen says. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you broke the rules and saved my dying ass.”

“Are you?”

Stiles shrugs. “I mean, yeah?” He fiddles absently with the remote on his belt loop. It controls his microprocessor knee. “I mean, on bad days, I have to remind myself it wouldn’t have just been me who died that day. I would have taken a little of my dad and Scott. They wouldn’t have been the same after. I wasn’t after my mom died. I’m sure you weren’t after the fire.”

Derek can never go back. “A lot of people care about you, Stiles. It wouldn’t have just been your dad and Scott.”

“I guess.”

“No, Stiles, I mean it. You would have - it would have taken another little piece of me if you’d died that day.”

“Wow,” says Stiles after a minute. “I mean, you probably don’t have a lot of pieces left. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Why you’ve thrown your lot in with Scott?”

 _Not Scott. You._ Derek clears his throat. “Yeah,” he says, “yeah, something like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for a little housekeeping. This’ll be long, but I’ll make it worth it. Promise.
> 
> First of all, my thanks to my tremendous betas. The darling [frommybookbook](http://frommybookbook.tumblr.com/) helped me figure out this beast of a chapter while also starting a new job. Then there’s [lazaefair](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lazaefair), who edited not one but two chapters this month AND is dogsitting for my irascible mutt while I’m travelling for work. I would not be posting this today if not for them. MORE PROOF WEREWOLVES ARE STRONGER IN PACKS.
> 
> If you’re a geek like I am, I’ve posted both [my timeline](http://em2mb.tumblr.com/post/131106545488/caretakers-timeline) and additional info about [Stiles’ prosthesis](http://em2mb.tumblr.com/post/131183401658/also-can-you-tell-me-what-type-of-prosthetic-you).
> 
> A quick note on “harbinger of death.” Before it appeared in season five, frommybookbook and I used to it regularly in our conversations about Lydia’s banshee powers. That said, I’m not planning to mirror how Jeff Davis is using her (or Deputy Parrish) in canon. But I will happily show you our emails describing her as a harbinger of death because I’m super irritated it made it into the show before it appeared here.
> 
> Finally, I really wanted to do Sterek Week this year but real life and writing Caretakers got in the way. So, for a limited time, [I’m taking prompts from you, readers](http://em2mb.tumblr.com/post/132271833688/im-taking-prompts). I’d love to do some in-universe drabbles with Amputee!Stiles, but I’m also just curious as to what stories you’d like me to tell. Head over to [my Tumblr](http://em2mb.tumblr.com/) for more information. (See, I told you it’d be worth it.)
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! I love to interact with you guys, so please, let me know what you think of the fic so far!
> 
>  **ETA 1/2/16:** I know it's been a long wait, but I'm hoping to drop a super-sized chapter 9 in mid-January.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, good,” says Arroyo. “Wouldn’t want to patrol tonight with someone who’s easily spooked.”
> 
> Parrish bristles. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demands.
> 
> Arroyo quirks an eyebrow. “Full moon?” She wiggles her fingers. _“Ooooh.”_
> 
> Parrish grimaces. “You can’t be serious,” he says, pulling on his jacket.

Stiles flops from his side to his back and stares at the ceiling, wondering what he’d hear in the quiet house with werewolf ears. His dad still isn’t home, yet Derek had insisted Stiles call it a night. Stiles closes his eyes, opens them again. He reaches for his phone.

It bugs him that Scott hasn’t checked in.

Usually Stiles would be able to hear his dad puttering around in the kitchen. It’s not that the sheriff isn’t trying to be quiet - quite the contrary, in fact - it’s that he almost makes more noise when he’s trying not to. Scott’s the same way. But Stiles has no idea what Derek does on nights like this one, when he’s staying late because John can’t get away.

Stiles tries to imagine the werewolf asleep in the living room, remote in hand, maybe snoring a bit the way the sheriff does. He can’t. He doubts Derek’s passed out on the couch, either, a little drool on his chin. That’s how Stiles usually finds Scott on mornings he’s stayed over, even if John turned up during the night.

Reading. That’s probably what Derek is doing. He’d read a lot over the summer, taking more than his fair share of shifts Stiles-sitting. Stiles snorts. That’s what Scott calls it, usually when he thinks Stiles is out of earshot. Sometimes Stiles wants to remind his best friend it was his leg he lost, not his hearing.

His best friend, who hasn’t said anything since Stiles threw up at the sight of a sawed-off leg.

Stiles checks his messages one more time. It’s not like any of the girls have checked in, either, but that hurts less. He tosses his phone onto his bedside table, where it promptly skitters off, dangling from the charger cable. Across the room, his prosthesis is also charging, power indicator blinking faintly. Stiles rolls onto his side away from it, the fact that he’s not supposed to be sleeping on his stump be damned.

He’s drifting off when his phone does ring, and it is Scott.

Except the alpha isn’t calling to apologize. Even in Stiles’ sleep-addled state, he can recognize the panic in Scott’s voice. “Stiles, I need help,” he begs. “I need - ”

Stiles is already reaching for his crutches, not that he’s thought far enough ahead to consider how he’s going to help Scott when he can’t walk or drive. He hasn’t taken a frantic, middle-of-the-night phone call in a while. He’s rusty. Out of practice. “Scott, slow down. Where are you? What happened?”

“It’s Kira,” Scott pants, “it’s - shit, Stiles, I don’t know what happened, I didn’t mean - it was - you know I’d never - ”

His little sniff is unmistakable. Stiles stops trying to yank his hoodie on. “Talk to me, Scott,” Stiles prompts, phone pressed to his ear. “Where are you? Where’s Kira?”

“My house, my house. I’m at my house.”

“Is Kira with you?” Stiles wants to know. Now he hears Derek’s footsteps. Immediately, he feels relieved. Whatever’s happening, the other werewolf will help figure it out. “Scott, where’s Kira?”

“She’s here.” There’s a pause. Scott’s not just sniffling. He’s _crying._ “Fuck, Stiles.”

Stiles has only managed to get the one arm into his hoodie. “Scott, what happened? Is Kira OK? Scott, did something happen - ”

“It was me.”

Scott’s confession is barely audible over the squeak of Stiles’ bedroom door opening. The teen waves Derek over. “What was you?”

“It was me,” Scott says again. “Stiles, I did this.”

Stiles goes cold. “What did you do?”

_“There’s so much blood,”_ Scott whispers.

*           *           *

“What are you still doing here?”

John’s head jerks up from the crime scene photos he’s been staring at for the last hour. Rafe is just about the last person he expects to see hanging in his door after midnight. The sheriff rubs his mouth. “Just trying to make some sense of this,” he says finally.

The FBI agent squints at a photo of Principal Thomas’ slit throat. Rafe yanks one hand from his pocket. “Not your case, Stilinski,” he says evenly, drumming his fingers on the edge of the desk.

“No,” John agrees, lifting himself from his chair. He doesn’t bother asking what Rafe might need, just reaches for his coat.

“Who’s with Stiles?”

The sheriff pauses mid-shrug. “Is that supposed to be a comment on my parenting?” he grunts, straightening his collar. Derek’s with Stiles. Derek’s with Stiles a lot these days.

Rafe’s hand returns to his pocket. “Maybe it’s a comment on mine.”

“Scott was over there earlier.” John clears his throat. “He’s helped us a lot the last few months.”

“It could have been him, you know.”

_No, it couldn’t._ Rafe, of course, doesn’t know his son is a werewolf. “Be glad it wasn’t,” the sheriff says gruffly, not bothering to collect the photos from his desk. He’s sure Rafe will do that.

But the FBI agent doesn’t reach for the case file. “I am, you know. I thank God every day it wasn’t Scott.”

John almost snorts.

“C’mon, I don’t deserve that,” says Rafe. “It’s not like I’m glad it was Stiles.”

John doesn’t answer. “Lock up, will you?”

“Sheriff.”

John’s shoulders tense. He doesn’t turn around. “What do you want, Rafe?” he asks wearily.

Rafe crosses his arms. “You’ve been in here for days, poring over a case that isn’t even yours.”

“I’m still the sheriff of this county.” _For another six days, at any rate._

“What is it that you think we’ve missed?”

This time, John does snort. “G’night,” he says firmly.

But Rafe isn’t finished. “I’m asking you one lawman to another,” he calls after John. “Is there something I missed?”

John’s not one to take cheap shots, though this one he can’t quite resist. “The last four years?”

Rafe’s eyes narrow. “Very funny.”

“See you tomorrow,” John calls over his shoulder.

“So you don’t want to talk to him, then.”

John freezes. “Talk to who?”

“The kid,” says Rafe. “Caldwell.”

And he beckons John back to holding. It’s fuller than usual - Halloween and all - and smells of booze and piss. At this hour, most of the drunks his deputies rounded up are sleeping it off. The only inmate still awake is 17-year-old Kyle Caldwell, the Beacon Hills high school senior about to be charged with two counts of first degree murder. The teenager rubs his arms, trying to stay warm in the drafty station.

“No bed,” John says casually.

“Oh yeah,” says Rafe, hooking two fingers through the bars and giving the cell door a rattle. “Got caught tying his bedsheets together. C’mon, c’mon, up and at ’em.”

Kyle’s taller than Scott or Stiles, even the sheriff. Hell, he might be as tall as Rafe, though it’s hard to tell with his shoulders hunched. At once, John notices the teenager still has the grungy sweatshirt he’d been wearing when he was arrested. The drawstring hasn’t even been removed, meaning Rafe’s less worried about suicide than he is about making the kid uncomfortable.

“Evening, Kyle,” John says pleasantly.

“What do you want?” the teenager says sourly. “Come to ask me more questions? I won’t talk, not without my lawyer.”

Rafe rocks back on his heels. “You wouldn’t talk with him, either. In fact, I seem to remember - what was the conversation? Oh yeah - ” he pulls his hands from his pockets, curling his fingers into air quotes “ - I remember. ‘You’re fired.’ That’s what, the second lawyer you’ve run off?”

“Third,” says Kyle contemptuously as Rafe unlocks the cell.

“So you won’t talk to me, you won’t talk to Cortez, you won’t talk to Rollins. What about Stilinski, huh?”

Kyle glares at the sheriff. “What makes you think I’ll talk to him?”

Rafe shrugs as he slaps cuffs on Kyle’s outstretched wrists. “At this point I’d let the janitor take a crack at you. Besides,” he says, jerking a thumb back toward John, “he’s on his way out.”

That’s how the sheriff finds himself in an interrogation room with the kid who sold his son a boa constrictor in the fifth grade. “Probably not how you imagined spending Halloween.”

“I’m not stupid,” Kyle spits. He lifts his clasped hands a few inches, all the shackles will allow. “That’s a two-way mirror.”

John nods. “It is,” he confirms, “and you were right earlier. You’re under no obligation to talk to me.”

“But you think I will, don’t you?” Kyle challenges. “You want to succeed where those FBI guys failed.”

The sheriff scrunches up his face, glancing over his shoulder. He turns back to Kyle. “Wouldn’t you?”

“You’re wasting your time. I’m not going to confess to something I didn’t do, so you might as well get home to your crippled kid.”

John leans back in his chair, thumb skimming his chin. “I’m not looking for a confession, Kyle.”

He watches for it, and he’s not disappointed. The teen’s shoulders tense. “Why should I believe you? You’re done for. Everyone in this town knows that.”

Unfortunately for Kyle, John’s already resigned to the fact he’s going to lose, so this dig rolls off his back even easier than the crack about Stiles. “Maybe so,” he concedes.

“You’ll be remembered as the sheriff who couldn’t close cases,” Kyle taunts, “the one whose son cost the school district millions.”

Millions, plural, might just cover Stiles’ medical bills. “What about you?” John asks. “How do you think you’ll be remembered?”

Kyle’s chin jerks up. “Me? No one’s going to remember me.”

John crosses his arms. “They will if you don’t start talking. There’s a lot of people who think you killed two men in a desperate attempt to avenge your brother’s death. Now, I’m not one of them. But son, if you don’t start talking - ”

It’s a misstep. A serious misstep. Kyle is on his feet so fast he overturns the chair. “I’m not your son,” he growls. “Your son is an _asshole_ who ruined my life. He made us late, he switched seats with Danny, and then, as my brother - ” Kyle’s voice cracks _“ - as my little brother bled to death, they saved Stiles instead.”_

The worst part is, he’s not wrong. John’s read the accident report enough times to know at least three of the boys were candidates for air transport: Stiles, a sophomore with a spinal cord injury named Joshua DeWitt and Kevin, Kyle’s 15-year-old brother. But only two air ambulances were available that day, and Kevin Caldwell had been loaded onto a rig so Stiles could take the flight to the hospital.

Kevin never made it.

John’s gruff “I’m sorry about your brother” feels inadequate.

“No, you’re not,” Kyle retorts. “You’re not sorry at all.” He looks into the two-way mirror like he can see Rafe on the other side. “Neither am I. Did you hear that? I’m not sorry they’re dead. I’m not sorry at all.”

“Don’t do it, Kyle,” John cautions. “I know you miss your brother, and I’m sorry, I really am, but I’m telling you, whoever you’re trying to protect, it’s not worth - ”

“I did it!” Kyle confesses gleefully. “It was me! I killed them! I did it! Did you hear that? I DID IT TO AVENGE MY BROTHER. Happy now?”

John certainly isn’t, not even when Rafe claps his shoulder in congratulations. “You’re not half bad, Stilinski,” he tells the sheriff. “Word gets out that you extracted the confession, it might be enough to save your job.”

John pushes Rafe off. “One problem.”

The sheriff’s already walking away, so Rafe is forced to jog after him. “What’s that?”

“He’s not guilty.”

Rafe splutters. “What? He confessed!”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

Rafe grabs John’s elbow. “You know something.”

John rounds on the FBI agent. “I know that _that_ kid - ” he jabs a finger in the direction of holding “ - is too busy mourning his brother to pull off two ritualistic murders as some petty revenge. So yeah, he’ll take credit for it. Why not? Show Sanders and Thomas and everyone else he thinks is complicit in his brother’s death who’s boss! Just one problem, Rafe.”

The FBI agent is clearly agitated. “Which is?”

“If I’m right, if that kid’s innocent _\- and he is -_ then the real killer’s still out there.”

Rafe shakes his head. “Unbelievable,” he tells John. “You don’t know how to take a win that’s been handed to you. I’ll admit it. There’s something funny going on in this town, Stilinski. You’ve lasted longer in this job than most, and I wanted to help you. I knew Caldwell was about to crack. I wrapped his confession up for you. All you had to do was tie the bow, yet here you are, spouting crap theories at one in the morning. Go. Get out of here.” Under his breath, he adds, “Kid’s right. You should be with your disabled son.”

John’s hand freezes on the doorknob to his office. “What did you say?”

Rafe clears his throat. “I said, Caldwell’s right. You should be at home with Stiles. Then again, you’ll have plenty of time to spend with him after the election, won’t you?”

John slams the door in the FBI agent’s face.

*           *           *

She hadn’t meant to pass out.

The last thing Kira remembers is Scott begging her to stay with him as the corners of her vision went dark. When she comes to, the living room is decidedly fuller than it had been.

“I don’t know what you want me to do, Scott,” Stiles says angrily, bent forward on his crutches, one hand massaging the back of his neck. Even in her semi-coherent state, Kira wishes he’d sit down. “I’m not a doctor, or a druid, or your emissary - ”

Scott stops pacing. “But you know about kitsunes,” he says desperately. “They can heal, right? She healed after the berserker. Why isn’t she healing now?”

Stiles shrugs helplessly. “Kitsunes can heal, but it doesn’t - ” he pinches his fingers together, as if trying to pluck the word out of the air “ - it’s not _instantaneous_ like it is for you guys.”

_You guys._ Now Kira notices Derek, too, arms crossed over his leather jacket, stone-faced on the other side of the living room. She opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out.

“But werewolves don’t heal instantly,” Scott insists. “Sometimes you have to trigger the healing process - ”

“Pain,” Derek interjects.

There’s a tug of war Kira can’t see. “I’m not going to break her arm,” Scott insists, turning back to her. He squeezes her hand. “I’ve hurt you enough.”

“Then it’s like I’ve been saying all along,” Stiles says impatiently, “Noshiko must have done - she did something, OK? We have to call her, we have to - ”

_“No.”_

Three heads snap toward the couch as she struggles to sit up. “Lie down,” Derek snaps as Scott dives for her hand.

“It’s OK,” Kira lies, “it’s not so bad.”

Scott’s grimacing with effort, but his veins don’t go dark. “Why can’t I take your pain?”

Before she can answer, Stiles throws up his hands in exasperation. “Because she’s a kitsune!” he bursts as one of his crutches topples to the floor. “Why won’t anyone listen to me? We need the Yukimuras, OK? We need to call her - ”

_“No,”_ Kira says again. “Don’t call my parents, please, Scott? Do what you have to do - ” she’ll let him break her arm if that’s what it takes “ - but please don’t call them.”

“OK, OK,” says Scott, brushing back her hair. The gesture is so tender, so loving, so in contrast to the monster who’d savaged her in the first place.

_That wasn’t Scott,_ she tells herself firmly. There’s no way Scott would hurt her. Yet he had. They were having sex -

“Deaton,” Derek says.

Stiles hobbles around on one crutch to point at the older werewolf. “See? There’s an idea. What we need is solid thinking like - ”

_“No,”_ Derek growls, _“Deaton’s here.”_

“Oh,” says Stiles.

Scott drops her hand and shuffles to the door. “How’d you know?” she hears him ask.

“Where is she?” Deaton replies, tone brisk. A few seconds later, he’s crouched beside her. “Kira, it’s Dr. Deaton. Can I take a look?”

She’d prefer he didn’t, but if her choices are to be examined by a veterinarian or for Scott to call her mother -

“OK,” she manages. Remembering her meditation, she takes what’s supposed to be a calming breath and ends up choking on blood.

Scott looks like he’s going to be sick. He glances over his shoulder at Derek and Stiles. “Maybe the two of you could - ”

Kira gropes for his hand as Deaton peels back the towel to reveal the deep claw marks snaked across her bosom. “Scott,” the druid says after a minute, replacing the blood-soaked towel, “this may well be out of my expertise.”

“You have to help,” Scott pleads.

Deaton straightens, pushing off his knees with his hands. “I want to,” he says, “but there isn’t anything I can do for Kira.”

“Nothing?”

“She’s a fox, Scott, not a werewolf,” Deaton says, not unkindly. “Unlike a werewolf, a kitsune’s power to heal comes from within.”

Scott’s caress is gentle, but the thumb he rubs across her wrist sends a shudder up Kira’s spine. “Is there a way to trigger it?”

“Pain will not work.”

“A ritual, then. Surely there’s - ”

“Not any ritual I know, though I will concede one likely exists.”

It’s Stiles’ cue to pipe, “Well, yeah. Like I’ve been saying all along, Noshiko had to do something after the berserker - ”

Kira’s eyes flutter. “No,” she interrupts, struggling to remain conscious, “all she did was make a poultice and tell me it would not be so hard to heal if only I had a tail. How did - ” she shivers as she turns her head to Stiles, trying not to look at her wounds “ - you do it?”

“Me?” Stiles guesses. “How did I do what?”

“When you weren’t you,” Kira clarifies. “When you were the nogitsune, how did you heal?”

Affronted, Stiles snaps, “I was possessed!”

Derek takes a step forward. “We know, Stiles. But if you remember anything - ”

_“I don’t,”_ says Stiles, shaking Derek’s hand from his shoulder. “Jeez.”

It’s a lie, and Kira knows it. Usually she doesn’t blame Stiles for not wanting to relive what he did as the nogitsune. But she wishes he’d make an exception this once. She opens her mouth to plead with him, but all that comes out is a whimper. “It hurts.”

“Scott, we have to call Noshiko,” Stiles says firmly. “She’s in too much pain.”

Kira’s too weak to protest.

“I’ll do it,” Scott says finally. “I did this. I’m the one who should call.”

And he does. He gets her father. “Mr. Yukimura? It’s Scott - ”

Her dad, at least, makes a token effort to soothe her when they fly through the door 20 minutes later. _“Ttal,”_ he breathes, stroking her hair, “what has happened?”

Noshiko rounds on her daughter’s boyfriend. “I would like to know the same thing.”

_Tell them, Scott. Tell them the truth. Tell them what I did._

But he’s Scott, so of course he takes full responsibility. “It’s my fault,” he tells her angry parents. “I lost control. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

*           *           *

Someday, Scott will look back and wonder how Stiles managed to get him up the stairs and into the shower without killing them both, but tonight he’s done asking questions. He falls with a thud against the tile wall as Stiles wrenches the faucet on. It takes the old pipes a second to oblige, but then cold water rains down around them.

“Breathe, Scotty,” Stiles commands.

Scott clings to Stiles for dear life. “I could have killed her,” he mumbles, choking back a sob. He buries his face in Stiles’ neck. “I almost did.”

The crutch Stiles is still holding falls to the floor with a clatter. “Dude, it’s OK. Kira’s going to be OK. You didn’t mean to hurt her, Scott. I know that. You know that.”

“Does she?” Scott croaks. _“Does she?”_

Stiles’ soaked t-shirt clings to surprisingly defined arms. “Yeah,” he says finally. “She does.” He reaches behind them to turn off the spray. “Better?”

Scott nods. He still feels like shit, but at least he’s not hyperventilating.

“Then let’s get you out of here, OK?”

Another nod. He watches Stiles grip the edge of the tub for balance, then lower himself to the edge and in one fluid motion swing his leg over. He grabs his crutch, stands and reaches for a towel. “Here,” he says, draping it around Scott’s still-quivering shoulders.

Scott tries to refuse it. “You’re wet, too,” he insists.

“Yeah,” Stiles says dryly, “but I’m not the one who tried to rip my girlfriend’s throat out.” Quickly, he adds, “Accidentally!”

Still, the words hang between them like a chasm. “It was - ” Scott sucks in a great gulp of air “ - an accident.”

“I know, man, I just - ”

Scott rounds on Stiles. “Do you?” he demands. “Do you really? Because you’re acting like - like - ”

Stiles folds his arms across his chest. “Like your best friend who showed up in the middle of the night, no questions asked?”

He has a point. And as he leans against the wall, water-logged sweatpants starting to unroll, Scott feels guilty about dragging Stiles in on this at all. Scott’s supposed to be taking care of Stiles, not the other way around. “Let me get you some dry clothes.”

“Scott - ”

But he’s already bustled into his bedroom for two pairs of pajama pants. Stiles, Scott thinks, is the original owner of at least one pair, but damned if he knows which one. He grabs Stiles a shirt, too. Stiles is sitting on the edge of the tub when Scott returns. “Here,” he says, holding out the clothes.

Stiles stares at them for a minute. “When,” he asks, finally holding out his hands, “is your mom going to be home?”

“Not until morning,” Scott replies. “Why?”

“We should probably flip the couch cushions, you know, hide the - ” _blood._

“I’ll do it,” Scott volunteers. It’s not until he’s halfway down the stairs that he realizes why Stiles had taken the change of clothes so gingerly. They grew up taking baths together, but he hasn’t seen Stiles shirtless since the bus crash.

He can smell Kira’s fear in the living room, stomach turning at the sight of the blood-splattered couch. He hastily flips the cushions, only to discover an old spaghetti stain on the reverse. Scott sighs.

Stiles is sitting on Scott’s bed, a damp towel draped around his shoulders. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Scott would sooner forget the whole, horrifying incident ever happened. Still, he nods. “OK.”

“What happened, man?”

He swallows the lump in his throat. “Like I told the Yukimuras - ”

“Not the bullshit story you told Kira’s parents,” Stiles cuts in. “Scott, it’s me. What happened? I know you. You’d never hurt Kira. Well, not intentionally.”

“Then does it matter?” Scott asks, voice hollow.

Stiles just stares. “I guess not,” he says finally, and he peels back the quilt on Scott’s bed.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Stiles retorts, shifting his weight so he can tug the blanket back up over him. “It’s 3 a.m. I’m going to sleep.”

“You don’t want me to take you home?” No response. “You don’t want me to take you home.”

Scott hits the light and crawls into bed. He can’t remember the last time Stiles slept over. It had been before the accident. It had probably been life or death.

“You should know,” Stiles declares, pausing dramatically, “I still sleepwalk from time to time. I just don’t get as far.”

Scott snorts and flips onto his side. “Hey, uh, about what happened at your house - ”

“It’s fine,” Stiles says at once. And, thoughtfully, “You didn’t know.”

“I never would have - ”

“Scott,” Stiles says wearily, “I’m the one that told you to bring the damn movie, OK? Just forget it.”

“I didn’t - ” Scott tries, licks his lips “ - I actually wanted Kira to drop me off and go home. But she insisted on coming in. And, uh, we - ”

“And you what?” Stiles prompts, impatient as ever.

Scott shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have to take care of me. I’m supposed to - ”

“Scotty,” Stiles interrupts, hand clapping his stump, “am I still pack?”

“What? Why would you - ”

“Answer the question, Scott. Because haven’t I always said we’d figure this werewolf stuff out together?”

Scott bites his lip. “You have.” He still isn’t sure how to tell Stiles about this one.

Turns out, he doesn’t have to. “She did something, didn’t she? Not Kira, but the trickster.”

Scott blinks. The electricity had ripped through his body a second before he wolfed out. “How’d you - ”

Stiles blows out a puff of air. “Let’s just say I’ve been waiting for something like this to happen,” he says darkly.

Stunned, Scott almost brains himself on the headboard. “What do you mean, you were waiting for something like this to happen?” he demands.

Stiles sits up too, though not nearly as fast. “I’ve been working with her, haven’t I? Her mom was driving her crazy with all this meditation crap, and I figured, what the hell? It won’t hurt anyone to help Kira turn on the lights. Except that part of Kira, that pulse that makes her a thunder kitsune - it’s not just a current. It’s not just electricity.”

“You’re not making any sense,” says Scott, but Stiles absolutely is. He feels numb, he feels -

“It’s not - it’s not a parlor trick, Scott,” Stiles continues. “It’s not idly flicking your claws or wolfing out for laughs. There are real consequences when Kira uses her powers. You’re a wolf, she’s a fox, there’s a reason those things don’t - don’t - ”

Scott squints at Stiles’ moving hands, unmistakably simulating penetration. “Did you just make - ”

“Yeah,” says Stiles, and even in the dark Scott can see his friend redden, though maybe not as much as he did. “That’s when it happened, right? When you guys were - ”

“Yeah,” Scott says quickly. “Yeah.”

“Huh.” Stiles chews on this for a moment. “And that’s not something that’s happened - ”

“What do you think?” Scott interrupts.

“I’m guessing not,” Stiles says dryly. “What about control? I know that’s something you struggled with back with - back with - in the beginning.”

_Back with Allison._ Scott’s grateful Stiles doesn’t say her name. “Never with Kira, though.”

“So she electrocutes you - ” they both grimace “ - and you wolf out?”

Scott nods miserably. “You want to know the worst part?” Stiles doesn’t say anything, and Scott can _feel_ Kira’s supple flesh tearing in his hands. “There’s this - the wolf in me, it liked it.”

Of all the possible reactions Stiles could have, Scott’s not expecting him to say, “That’s how it was for me, too.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” says Stiles. “I said, _‘Me too.’_ I haven’t forgotten what I did as the nogitsune. _I_ did those things. These hands - ” they’re pale in the moonlight “ - there’s blood on them.”

“Stiles - ”

“I didn’t help Kira because I didn’t want her accessing that darkness, OK?” Stiles swallows hard. “That’s how the nogitsune healed itself. Maybe Noshiko knows another way, but - ” he swipes quickly at his eyes, but Scott still smells the single, salty tear that escapes “ - I don’t think so. That’s why she’s so determined to teach Kira control. She knows Kira will need it, or else she’ll never be able to fight her way back from earning tails.”

Stiles is right. _Of course Stiles is right, he always is._ Scott sniffs. He can’t help it. “So Noshiko’s been telling the truth. Kira and I aren’t - ”

“No.”

“No?” Scott repeats. “Stiles, you just said - ”

_“I don’t care,”_ Stiles snaps. “I’m the one that dragged you out in the woods and ruined your life. I can fix this thing with Kira. I know I can.”

Scott stares at his best friend. “But you didn’t ruin my life.”

It hadn’t been the first time Stiles had roused Scott in the middle of the night because his dad had gotten an interesting call. In fact, Stiles had scaled the McCalls’ gutter to knock on Scott’s bedroom window once a week in those days because he was lonely or just plain bored. Half the time he’d convince Scott to join him on a joyride. Others, he’d crawl into Scott’s twin bed and lie much like they are now, whispering back and forth until one of them fell asleep and Melissa was yelling at both of them to go to school.

“I didn’t?”

“Did I ruin yours?”

“Why - ”

Scott drops his hand onto the mattress, as close as he dares to Stiles’ stump. “You wanted to quit lacrosse. You even texted me the day I got the bite, ‘Are we seriously doing this again?’ Then I got good, and you stayed on the team.”

“C’mon, I wasn’t _that_ bad.”

“Yes, you were. No offense.”

They sit there in silence for a few minutes, Stiles trying not to fidget, Scott figuring out how to initiate a hug. Finally, it’s Stiles who claps Scott on the back. “Brothers don’t talk shit on each other’s lacrosse games,” he mutters into Scott’s shirt.

Scott smiles for what feels like the first time all night. “Yes, they do.”

They get back under the covers. “So history tomorrow,” Stiles says conversationally. “Should be fun.”

Scott groans. Noshiko had behaved exactly as he expected, terse toe-tapping and accusations as he’d carried Kira out to the car, but Ken’s refusal to even look at him had hurt. They’d whisked their daughter away half-healed and made him wait an hour for a sparse text that said, “Kira is resting.”

“They’ve been talking about moving back to New York,” Scott says. Allison’s dead. Malia’s still scared of most noises. Lydia’s barely there when she does come. And Scott’s pretty sure Derek only shows up because of Stiles, who still doesn’t know his dad is planning to uproot him in a few short weeks.

Stiles slings an arm around Scott and smashes his face into the werewolf’s neck. “We’ll figure it out together,” he promises.

_But you’ll be in Ohio._

Scott’s pack is falling apart.

*           *           *

He’s being followed.

Derek keeps his grip on the steering wheel loose, relaxed, as the black Suburban also takes a right on Maple. He’ll give whoever it is credit - the SUV’s far less conspicuous than Argent’s goons had been when they’d tailed him around town. But that means he’s not dealing with an amateur.

He figures he has a couple of options. He could backtrack to Scott’s, but something tells Derek the distraught teenage alpha would be of little use in a fight. He could try throwing the Suburban off, but if his instinct is correct and the person pursuing him is a pro, then it’ll only delay the inevitable.

So Derek drives to the loft, resigned.

_At least Stiles isn’t with you,_ he thinks as he unbuckles his seatbelt. The parking lot is empty, but the Suburban is now parked on some side street, he has no doubt. Derek had argued with Stiles about staying at Scott’s, but in the end, it had been for the best. The elevator rises slowly to the penthouse. Sure, he could have sprinted up the stairs, but let his attacker be winded, not him.

Much to Derek’s annoyance, though, the lithe assailant waiting in the shadows isn’t at all out of breath. In fact, the jog up twelve flights of stairs must have been a nice warm-up, because she’s springing toward him like some kind of goddamned ninja in one of Stiles’ video games.

Still, Derek has the advantage of superhuman reflexes. He blocks her first shot, and her second, but the third - a well-timed kick to the solar plexus - sends him staggering backwards.

“And the claws come out,” she sneers. _“How predictable.”_

This annoys Derek, though not enough to not flick them. He’s about to take a swipe at her when he realizes he’s heard that voice before. Caught off-guard, he doesn’t block the kick that sweeps his legs out from under him.

_“Oomph,”_ says Derek, landing on his back as Braeden laughs. He pushes away the hand she offers. “Is this how you treat everyone who wants to hire you?”

The mercenary smirks. “Only the ones whose jobs I plan to take.”

*           *           *

Melissa grimaces, rubbing the knot in her neck as she digs through her bag for her keys. She’s looking forward to a shower and passing out for eight hours until her next shift when she notices Scott’s bike still parked by the shed. She groans. _“You,”_ she mutters, unlocking the door, “are going to be in so much trouble - SCOTT!”

No answer.

Melissa sighs and throws her bag on the counter, stomping upstairs. “Scott, I mean it, you’re already - ”

There was a time not so long ago when finding Stiles asleep in Scott’s bed wouldn’t have been noteworthy. It had happened so routinely she half-wondered if the boys had a schedule: _today we’ll sleep at your house; tomorrow, mine …_

But then the slumber parties had tapered off, and Melissa learned she had much bigger concerns than where the boys were sleeping. If they made it home between monsters to sleep at all.

She nudges Stiles first. He’s curled on his side, half-buried under the blankets and pillows Scott kicked aside in the night. “C’mon, you’re not supposed to be sleeping like that,” she says as Stiles yawns. “Who’s taking you to school?”

Now Scott’s stirring. “I’ll do it,” he mumbles, flinging back the sheets.

She crosses her arms. “In whose car?”

“Yours?” Scott says hopefully

That’s when she notices his red-rimmed eyes. “What happened?” she demands.

It certainly doesn’t help their case when at the same time they say, _“Nothing.”_ She hasn’t believed anything they’ve told her in unison since the first grade.

“Uh-huh,” says Melissa. She has a bad feeling about this. A very bad feeling. “Both of you, get dressed. You’re already late.”

“Scott,” she hears Stiles ask as she pulls the door shut behind her, “can I, uh, borrow something to wear?”

She’s waiting for him when he limps out into the hall in a pair of Scott’s sweatpants. “You’re not wearing your prosthesis,” she scolds. “Where’s your other crutch?” _What you’re doing right now is dangerous._

“Downstairs?” Stiles guesses. He shrugs. “And I don’t always wear my prosthesis to school.”

He tries to take off down the stairs, but she grabs his arm before he can escape. “Why does Scott look like he’s been crying?”

Stiles doesn’t say anything. He looks as exhausted as she feels, and OK, maybe Melissa feels a little bad about blocking him in. “Stiles.”

He squirms uncomfortably. “It’s nothing. He’s fine.”

“Stiles.” Still nothing. “Did something happen last night? Is it about Kira?” He flinches involuntarily. “Aha!” Melissa says triumphantly. Then it dawns on her. “Oh God, did she break up with him? Did he break up with her? Did - ”

_“No,”_ Stiles interrupts, rubbing the back of his head. “They just had an accident, that’s all.” Quickly, he adds, “Don’t worry. It’s been taken care of.”

“Stiles!”

But he’s already scooting down the stairs, one step at a time. She knocks on Scott’s door again. “Talk to me, Scott.” _Tell me you haven’t knocked up your 17-year-old girlfriend._

Scott hauls the door open. His sour expression tells her he overheard everything Stiles had said. “I need to get Stiles to school,” he tells her.

She leans with one hand against the doorframe. “Not until you tell me what happened last night, you don’t.”

Scott won’t look her eye. “Drop it, Mom.”

“Drop it? I can’t just drop it, Scott. If you and Kira - ” she takes a deep breath “ - if something did happen, if you and Kira had some kind of an accident, then I will help you. I’ll talk to her parents. Plan B is effective for - ”

Scott’s head snaps up. “What? No!” Her son looks mortified. “That’s not - I have to get to school.”

And he ducks under her arm. “Scott - ”

_OK, so at least you don’t have to have_ that _conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Yukimura._ At the end of the hallway, Melissa’s bedroom beckons. But she’s not sure she could forgive herself if in fact something’s really wrong and she didn’t try one more time. Sighing, she heads back downstairs.

“Do you need to go by your house?” Scott’s asking.

There’s a pause. “Yeah, I could go to school without my leg, but I need my backpack. Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Where’s your other crutch? I’ll go get it.”

She cuts Scott off on his way to the living room. “You’re going to tell me what was serious enough to drag Stiles over here in the middle of the night,” she hisses.

Scott’s eyes stay brown, but Melissa swears she sees the wolf staring back at her. “No,” he says, snatching Stiles’ crutch from where it’s leaning against the couch. He returns to the kitchen.

“Seriously,” Melissa huffs, noticing the dark stain and reaching for the corner of the cushion to flip it, “what did you get up to last - and that’s blood.” She drops the cushion as soon as she realizes what she’s holding.

In the kitchen, Scott and Stiles stand frozen. Melissa points at her son. _“Start talking.”_

*           *           *

Agent McCall slaps Parrish’s desk as he passes. “You’re with me today,” he tells the deputy.

Parrish almost drops his phone. “I am?” he calls after the FBI agent. When McCall disappears into his makeshift office without answering, Parrish’s attention returns to Lydia’s text.

**LYDIA: Scott and Kira are both MIA. I’m sure that’s a coincidence.**

He’s still trying to compose a response when McCall swings by a second time, this time sipping from a steaming mug. “C’mon, Parrish, stop texting your new girlfriend. There’s a presser at the courthouse in 30 minutes.” He takes a sip and grimaces. “Jesus, who made this?”

Parrish tries very quickly to process what McCall just said. This time, he follows the FBI agent back to the conference room. “Sir, I don’t have a girlfriend.”

McCall smirks. “Parrish, I know you think I’m blind, deaf and dumb, but you’ve been grinning at your phone like an idiot for a week now. Who’s the girl?”

Parrish choke-coughs. The last thing he needs is for anyone to think he’s flirting with Lydia. “I assure you, Agent McCall, I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Boyfriend?”

“I’m not - ” Parrish closes his eyes, makes a mental note to stop texting Lydia at the station. As if on cue, his phone buzzes in his pocket. “What press conference?”

“You haven’t heard?” Parrish shakes his head. “Stilinski got the Caldwell kid to confess.”

Parrish frowns. “But he thinks - ”

“I’d tell you to ask him about it - ” McCall nods at the sheriff’s shuttered office “ - but he left about an hour ago.”

“To freshen up before the press conference.”

McCall takes another swig of coffee, promptly spits it back into the cup. _“Yech,”_ he says, making a face. “If we leave now, we can run by Starbucks.”

Parrish’s feet stay glued to the floor. “No way, the line’s always seven cars deep at this hour,” he says dismissively. “The sheriff _is_ coming to the press conference, right?”

McCall doesn’t answer. “Lights and sirens, Deputy,” he says, shoulder hitting Parrish on his way out the door. “You’re driving.”

Parrish’s phone buzzes again.

**2 MESSAGES**

**LYDIA MARTIN**

He hastily shoves his phone back in his pocket.

Twenty minutes later, he’s standing shoulder-to-shoulder with McCall and Mayor Carson, blowing on his hands to warm up, wishing he’d thought to put on an Under Armour that morning. There’s still no sign of the sheriff.

“Should we wait for Stilinski?” the prosecutor asks.

McCall takes a drink from his white-and-green cup. “He’s not coming.” He motions for the press gaggle to come closer.

Parrish’s instinct is to take a step back when the crowd tightens around him, but McCall shoves him forward. “Smile,” he hisses into Parrish’s ear, “you’re on camera.”

He really, really wishes he weren’t.

The prosecutor reads from a prepared statement explaining his decision to charge Caldwell as an adult. “I have requested bond be set at one million dollars,” he concludes, “and I will turn it over to Rafael McCall with the Federal Bureau of Investigations. Agent McCall took point on this case. He will be able to answer any questions you might have.”

“Thanks, Bob,” McCall says, gripping the podium. “Few people I’d like to thank today. Standing behind me are Agents Alex Rollins and Francisco Cortez, as well as Beacon County Sheriff’s Deputy Jordan Parrish. Also here is Sheriff Jay Campbell, the acting sheriff in Butte County. We could not have solved this one without his help. Sheriff Campbell has been dogged in his pursuit of justice for his friend and colleague, Nelson Sanders. I know you’re all going to be writing about the accused for the next few days. I’d just ask that you keep Sheriff Sanders and Waylon Thomas in your thoughts as well. I’m happy to answer any questions you have. Yes?”

Parrish recognizes the blonde at once. He’d had to ask her to leave the Stilinskis’ twice over the summer. “Margot Harris, Channel 7,” she says breathlessly. “Can I ask the question on all of our minds, Agent? Can you confirm this Kyle Caldwell is the same Kyle Caldwell whose brother died in the Beacon Hills lacrosse bus tragedy?”

“I can confirm Kyle Caldwell is related to one of the bus crash victims, yes. Next question.”

“Where’s Sheriff Stilinski?” someone calls from the back.

But Margot isn’t finished. “At this time, do you believe his brother’s death may have been a motivator for these gruesome murders?”

“I would say it’s too early to comment on motive, but we are certainly exploring all angles.”

“What evidence do you have linking the defendant to these murders?”

“I’ll direct you to the probable cause statement, but we discovered bloody clothes in the trunk of Caldwell’s car after he was arrested for spray painting threats on a bus owned by the school district.”

“Have lab tests linked that blood to either victim?”

“We’re still waiting on those results.”

“Does he have an alibi?”

“He does not have an alibi the night Sheriff Sanders disappeared or for when Principal Thomas was murdered, no. Anyone else? OK, then I’m going to - ”

“You still haven’t answered mine,” a man says impatiently. “Where _is_ Sheriff Stilinski?”

McCall rubs his chin. “As you all know, Sheriff Stilinski’s son was injured in the bus crash. He voluntarily removed himself from the case once that link became clear.”

“So he wasn’t involved in the investigation?”

“His participation was minimal. Thanks again, folks.”

Parrish is relieved when McCall tells him to go ahead, he’ll catch a ride back with Rollins. He’s about to slide into his cruiser when someone drawls, “Deputy Parrish.”

Wyatt Brown is a thickset man with greying hair and a large moustache, wearing his trademark flannel secured with a bolo tie. He extends his hand. “Wanted to introduce myself. I’m - ”

“ - Wyatt Brown, yeah,” Parrish interrupts, cringing inwardly. “I, uh, recognized you from TV.”

“Did you, now?” Brown chuckles. “Well, I’ve heard good things about you, Deputy. I just wanted you to know there will be lots of opportunities for you if I’m elected. Hopefully no more cases like this one, but I’ll put you to work. Do I have your vote?”

“It was nice meeting you, sir,” Parrish replies, letting go of Brown’s hand. He watches the older man’s eyes narrow.

Once safely inside his cruiser, Parrish checks his messages. Lydia’s sent him a selfie. Beneath the cracked glass, the banshee gives him a sultry smile.

**LYDIA: So bored.**

He gulps.

*           *           *

The attendance lady doesn’t even look up when Stiles limps in halfway through third period, just holds out her hand and demands, “Planner.”

Stiles pushes his cheek out with his tongue. By the time Melissa finished interrogating them, it had been so late he’d told Scott not to bother swinging by the house. “Yeah, I don’t have that.”

“You know the rules,” she says, still not making eye contact, “if you don’t have your planner - ”

“Dude,” Stiles interrupts, “I didn’t even make it here with both legs today.”

At last, her head jerks up. “Mr. Stilinski.”

He flashes what he hopes is a winning smile. “Hi.”

She plucks off her purple glasses, still looped around her neck on their beaded chain. “Do you need a lecture on the importance of bringing your planner to school with you?”

Stiles wrinkles his nose. “Just the tardy slip today.” He mumbles his thanks before trying to stuff the yellow square into his pocket, realizes Scott’s sweats don’t have pockets, and limps down to English with the paper crumpled in his hand.

Mr. Erholtz is collecting quizzes when Stiles reaches the classroom. “So nice of you to join us,” he says dryly, though he does hold the door open so Stiles can limp through it. “There’s a seat behind Damien.”

Stiles just about collapses when he reaches the chair. He pants for a moment, letting his aching muscles scream in protest, before tapping Damien on the shoulder. “Hey,” he whispers, “I need a pen. Also paper.”

Nothing.

Stiles nudges Damien again. “Hey, did you hear - ”

The legal pad lands with a thud in front of him. “We all heard you, Stiles,” Mr. Erholtz says as he hands Stiles a pencil, too.

Day’s off to a great start.

When the bell rings, Damien’s out of his seat so fast he sends one of Stiles’ crutches flying. He bolts.

Mr. Erholtz hands it back. “Usually Damien waits for you,” he says casually.

Never again is Stiles hauling 175 pounds of blubbering alpha werewolf up a flight of stairs. He’s pretty sure his leg is going to buckle when he stands up. “Yeah,” he says, “usually he does.”

“Everything all right?”

Stiles had showed up for school two and a half hours late, without his backpack, without his leg, wearing a pair of lacrosse sweatpants with a paint stain on the ass. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, “just fine.”

_Skeptical_ doesn’t begin to cover the look on Mr. Erholtz’s face. “Well,” he says, “you better get going. Keep the pencil. And the notebook. And Stiles?”

He stops in the doorway. “Yeah?”

“Come by before school tomorrow. I’ll let you make up that quiz.”

Stiles lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Thanks, Mr. E.”

“I hope your day gets better,” the English teacher says diplomatically. He points at the hallway. “Go, see if you can catch up with Damien.”

Stiles does, at the other teen’s locker. “Hey.”

Damien just keeps shoving books into his bag.

“So you’re not going to ask?” Stiles even twists his hips so the neon green handprint on the left buttcheek is plainly visible.

There’s a pause.

“Nope,” says Damien, and he slams his locker shut.

“Oh, come on,” Stiles says, scrambling to keep up. “What did I do?”

Damien stops so short Stiles almost loses his balance. “I went by your house last night.”

Stiles frowns. “You - ” he starts, rubbing his mouth. _Right._ Now he remembers, quite clearly, scrawling his address on a scrap of paper and handing it to Damien at lunch. “I thought you said you had to take your younger sister trick-or-treating.”

Damien clenches his jaw. “Then you said, ‘Well, then stop by and say hello. I’ll introduce you to my friends.’ Except when we get to your house, Lydia Martin is passing out candy and acts like she’s never heard of me.” In a scarily good imitation of the banshee, Damien flutters his lashes. “‘Damien? From school? He hasn’t mentioned you.’”

“C’mon, man,” Stiles mutters, scratching the back of his head. “Lydia’s not - that’s just how she is, OK? You went to school with her for what, nine years? She’s - ”

“Third grade, first day back after winter break, she taps me on the shoulder at the water fountain and asks if I knew I was wearing ‘boy pants,’” Damien says, fingers curling into quotation marks.

Stiles stares at Damien, dressed as always in cargo pants and an oversized t-shirt, shoulders hunched to hide his chest. “To be fair,” Stiles says, “you probably were.”

The words are no sooner out of his mouth than Stiles regrets saying them. “You are _such_ a dick,” Damien spits. “Why are you even here, Stiles?”

Stiles blinks. “Uh, traumatic leg amputation? Drug overdose? Are you really asking me?”

“Yeah, Stiles, I’m really asking. Because when I look at you, I see someone whose friends still care, whose family still loves him.” He glares at Stiles. “I can’t believe you’re friends with Lydia Martin.”

“Lydia’s not that bad,” Stiles insists. She’d basically ignored all of them the night before, but he doesn’t tell Damien that. “Listen - ”

“You don’t belong here, Stiles,” Damien interjects. And as the warning bell trills, he unzips his overstuffed backpack and pulls out the battered book of poems they’re reading in English right now. He shoves it into Stiles’ hands, though Stiles has no good way to carry it. “Thanks for letting me borrow it.”

One of Damien’s regular tormentors had tossed his copy down a toilet in the girls’ bathroom.

Stiles stares at the book. “You’re welcome? You don’t have to - ”

Then he remembers. Tucked inside the cover is the note from Morrell he’s been holding onto since September. Stiles’ get-out-of-jail-free card. The one he hasn’t used.

“ - give it back if you’re not done with it,” he finishes lamely. “Damien, wait!”

But the other teenager is halfway down the hall.

*           *           *

Kira wakes up to sunlight streaming through her bedroom window and her mother singing a Japanese cradle song. Well, what sounds like a lullaby. After several seconds, Kira realizes what Noshiko’s _actually_ doing is chanting.

“Mom - ”

She falls quiet under Noshiko’s intense gaze, though her mother doesn’t stop chanting to shush her. In fact, Noshiko begins to chant louder, until her words reverberate off the walls and Kira swears the whole house starts to shake. Nervously, she tells her mother, “I hope you know what you’re doing!”

Noshiko doesn’t seem to hear her.

Kira can feel her chest tightening, the scream ripped from her lungs. The shaking stops. She opens one eye, then the other, not entirely sure when she closed them. There’s a faint coat of plaster dust all over her bed.

But the biggest change, by far, is in the appearance of Scott’s claw marks. Whatever Noshiko did, the gaping wounds are gone, replaced by faint white lines. Still, Noshiko insists on smearing Kira with the same homemade poultice she had used after the berserker. “To prevent scarring,” she explains.

Kira thinks of the thick band of scar tissue on Stiles’ left leg where the surgeon had sutured the skin flaps closed. Maybe if she were facing an injury like that, she wouldn’t mind smelling like an onion. Her nose wrinkles. “Is this really necessary?” she complains.

She’s not expecting Noshiko’s eyes to flash. “Yes,” her mother admonishes, and she leaves the room.

At once, Kira reaches for her cell phone, but it’s not on her dresser. She frowns, wondering if it’s still at Scott’s, or if her parents took it away. That’s OK. She’ll use her laptop.

But when Kira tries to throw back her covers, it feels like four very sharp knives dragging across her chest. She clutches a hand to her heart but manages to avoid crying out. Maybe she isn’t as healed as she thought.

There’s a knock at her door. “Come in,” Kira calls, though she’s in no mood for company. At least her dad had the courtesy not to barge right in.

Ken enters carrying a tray, steam rising from the delicate clay teapot that had belonged to his grandmother. “How are you feeling?” he asks, a bit stiffly, pouring her a cup of ginger tea.

She’s careful to sit up slowly this time, and to shrug only slightly. “You’re not mad at Scott, are you?” she asks anxiously.

His mouth falls open, but no words come out. He could be relieved, he could be angry, but Kira doesn’t know because he excuses himself without answering, leaving the door open.

Noshiko returns.

“Drink,” she commands, fussing with Kira’s blankets until the young kitsune obliges. The ginger tea is warm and soothing in a way she had not anticipated. It reminds her of Sunday afternoon outings to Koreatown with her grandparents. The bed dips as Noshiko takes a seat. “Your father means well.”

“But it wasn’t Scott’s fault,” says Kira. “I know he said - ”

“Kira,” Noshiko interrupts, “it was not hard for your father and I to work out what happened.” She clears her throat. “Perhaps he is still coming to terms with the fact that you and Scott have sex.”

Mortified, Kira hisses, _“Mom.”_

“Since you have decided you are old enough to have sex, then you should not be embarrassed to talk about it,” says Noshiko, undeterred. “But as I have said all along, it is unusual for a fox to lie with wolves.”

Kira can’t look her mother in the eye. “We’ve been having sex for months,” she mumbles, “and nothing like this has happened before.”

Noshiko takes the empty teacup from her daughter and places it on the tray, her thin lips set in a line. “Then you have been very lucky.”

“Just tell me how not to do it again,” Kira begs.

“Perhaps,” her mother counters, “you should be less concerned about when you can jump back in bed with your werewolf boyfriend and more focused on your training.”

Frustrated, Kira flips onto her side, ignoring the painful pull beneath her breastbone. Tears sting her eyes. “You’re not being helpful.”

“Oh? And what would that look like, Kira?”

“Stop telling me I’ll never earn any tails,” says Kira, voice muffled by her pillow. “Stop telling me I should break up with Scott. I just want to be a teenage girl, Mom, not a kitsune who electrocutes her boyfriend with foxfire.”

“But Kira, you are not just a teenage girl, but a kitsune.”

Noshiko doesn’t say this unkindly, but it’s still not what Kira wants to hear. She pulls the covers up over her chin, pretty sure she can wait her mother out. But Noshiko just sweeps Kira’s hair to one side, tracing a backwards five behind her daughter’s ear. “Self,” she explains.

Kira shudders, and not just because Noshiko’s hands are freezing. “I haven’t forgotten the oni, Mom,” she says. How could she? Not after they killed Allison.

“Are you sure?” Noshiko asks. “Because I do not think you have come to terms with what you are, Kira. What it means to be kitsune.”

“I wish I weren’t,” Kira says bitterly, not bothering to hide the tears from her mother. “I don’t want to be a kitsune.”

She’s not expecting her mother to slide into bed next to her. It’s something Ken would do - often did when Kira was little and had bad dreams - but Noshiko’s never been as warm or nurturing as her human husband. She cradles Kira’s head against her chest. “Shhh,” she murmurs, _“shhh.”_

“Why?” Kira sobs. “Why’d you hide it from me? Why bother raising me human at all?”

Noshiko stops stroking her daughter’s hair. “But Kira,” she says, “we did not know you would be a kitsune.”

Kira lifts her head slowly. “You didn’t?”

Noshiko cups her daughter’s cheeks in her hands. “No,” she says honestly. “It is not unheard of for a fox-wife to bear her human husband’s children, or for them to have supernatural gifts. But I never expected to give birth to a full-fledged kitsune.”

Kira pushes her mother’s hands away. “But it’s happened before, right?” she demands. “I’m not, like, the first, am I?”

“I know only that I came into this world a wild fox spirit,” says Noshiko, “and did not assume this form until I had lived a century.”

She fluffs Kira’s pillows and helps her daughter lean back. “So I’m the only 17-year-old kitsune there ever was. Is that what you’re saying?” Kira childishly crosses her fingers under the sheets, like this will make it less true.

“Possibly,” says Noshiko in a tone Kira’s pretty sure means _yes._

“So how do you even know how you’re training me will work?” Kira says hotly.

“I don’t,” Noshiko admits, collecting the tea tray. “I know you are tired of hearing me say it, but you must learn control. It is the only way to earn tails, Kira. It is how one tames the fox within.”

Her mother still isn’t listening to her. Kira doesn’t want tails, or to tame her inner fox. But there is something she’s curious about. “How’d you heal me?”

There’s a thoughtful pause before Noshiko says, “There is a place kitsunes can go. But it is very dark, and the way back very treacherous.”

“We went somewhere?” Kira asks, surprised. She doesn’t remember anything after Scott carried her out to the car.

Noshiko shakes her head. “Not a physical location. It is more ... a state of being.”

“A state of being,” Kira repeats. “So when you say dark - ”

“I am talking about the void,” says Noshiko, “from which the nogitsune was born.”

Kira swallows hard. “You went with me?” Her mother nods. “Because you didn’t trust me to find my own way back,” Kira realizes, remembering how Noshiko’s eyes had flashed.

“Control,” says Noshiko, leaving the room.

Kira tries twice to retrieve her laptop, but pain overwhelms her both times. She pulls a blanket over her head to block the sunlight and squeezes her eyes tightly shut. She can almost hear Scott panting in her ear. _“I love you,” he’d said, one hand clasping hers tight above their heads, the other caressing her cheek. “So fucking much, Kira, I love you.”_

She’d meant to say it back, but she’d shocked him instead.

*           *           *

They’re a little outside Flagstaff when Derek’s phone rings. _Stiles._ He’s been waiting on this call all day.

Braeden taps impatiently on the steering wheel. After the third ring, she asks, “Aren’t you going to answer that?”

He glares at her. “Not with you in the car, no.”

Ten minutes later, the mercenary is pulling into a run-down service station just off the highway. An arrow points northwest. _Historic Route 66, 2 miles._ “Fill ’er up,” Braeden instructs, rapping her knuckles on the hood of the SUV. She points to the convenience store, neon sign flickering as the sun sets over the desert. “Want anything?”

Derek shakes his head.

_“Call him.”_ She disappears inside.

Stiles picks up on the second ring. “What happened to, _‘I’m here as long as you need me,’_ huh?” the teenager spits. “You just take off - ”

“I didn’t have a choice, Stiles,” Derek says irritably. “The woman I was telling you about, the one I thought might be able to help find Malia’s mom? She showed up at the loft last night.”

There’s a pause. “Well,” says Stiles, tone still accusatory, “then you could have at least told me not to expect you at PT.”

Derek leans against the Suburban. “How’d it go?” Watching Stiles lurch unsteadily across the kitchen seems like a lifetime ago, though in reality, it’s been less than 24 hours. The werewolf hasn’t even slept. “Who ending up taking you?”

“My dad,” Stiles says darkly. He offers no details.

“How’s Scott?”

Back in Beacon Hills, Stiles shrugs. “You know, still beating himself up about what happened.”

_Good._ “But Kira, she’s OK?”

“Far as I know. Scott tried to visit her after school, but Noshiko turned him away.” Derek can hear Stiles’ microprocessor knee in the background, whirring faintly. That’s good. That means he’s making an effort, finally. “How long did you say you were going to be gone?”

Derek didn’t. “A few days,” he guesses. Truth be told, Braeden won’t even tell him where they’re going, let alone how long it’ll take to get there.

“But you’ll be back before the election, right? Dad needs every vote he can get.”

“That’s Tuesday?” Before Stiles can launch into a tirade about how Election Day is always the first Tuesday in November, Derek sees Braeden and says, “Wouldn’t miss it. Listen, I have to go. I’ll check in tomorrow, OK?”

Mollified, Stiles says, “OK.”

Derek hangs up his phone and stares at it for a second. He’s not sure why he told Stiles he’d call again. It might not even be possible wherever they’re going.

“Here,” says Braeden, handing him a cup of coffee and a bag of beef jerky. When he takes it, albeit reluctantly, she smirks. “Don’t worry. I’ll be billing you for it.”

They get back in the car. This time, Derek doesn’t bother offering to drive. He takes a sip of coffee. It’s marginally better than the cup he’d had when they stopped outside Lake Havasu.

“You know,” Braeden says, pulling back onto the highway, “it’s not good to make promises you can’t keep.”

Derek scoffs. If even half of what he’s heard about the mercenary is true, her promises are only as good as what you’re paying her. “I haven’t made you any promises.”

“You did to that boy.” Derek doesn’t answer because Stiles doesn’t have anything to do with why he hired her. “You probably won’t be back in Beacon Hills before Tuesday.”

“How could I know that when you won’t tell me where we’re going?” he snaps.

“El Paso,” Braeden volunteers, like she’s doing Derek a favor. No mention of what’s in Texas, though.

“I’ll catch a flight,” Derek says sourly, and they lapse back into silence.

They hit Flagstaff at rush hour. The interstate is at a standstill when Braeden says, “He must be pretty important to you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Derek grumbles, scratching his chin as he stares out the window at the bumper-to-bumper traffic.

“Yes you do,” Braeden counters. “The kid, Stiles, the sheriff’s son. Last night when I said we had to leave immediately, you told me you had commitments. You meant taking Stiles to his physical therapy, didn’t you?”

Derek’s head snaps up. “How’d you know that?” he growls. “How long have you been following me?”

She’s surprisingly forthcoming. Her fingers form a V. “Though I don’t recall Deucalion describing Stiles as one-legged.”

Two days Braeden had been poking around Beacon Hills without them noticing. He’s not sure if that should make him feel worse about hiring her or better. “Don’t call him that,” Derek says.

“Well, what would you prefer? Disabled - ”

Before she can come up with a pejorative, Derek suggests, “Why don’t you just call him Stiles?” _Or, better yet, you could simply stop talking about him._

Fat chance. “So why does a kid like Stiles who runs with werewolves - ” she’s just trying to get a rise out of Derek at this point, he’s pretty sure “ - want to find Ellen Taylor?”

“I already told you,” Derek says through gritted teeth, determined to leave Stiles out of this, “I’m pretty sure she’s my cousin’s mother.”

“I find that hard to believe.” When Derek arches his eyebrows, Braeden says, “The Ellen Taylor I know never would have had sex with Peter Hale.”

At this, Derek sits up a little straighter in his seat. “Wait, you _know_ Ellen Taylor?”

Braeden shrugs. “Sure I do. Everybody knows each other in this business.”

_And what business, exactly, is that?_ But instead of asking what she puts on her resume, Derek says, “I never told you it was Peter.”

“Lucky guess.”

_Liar._ “So what’s in El Paso?”

They’re at the crest of a hill. Ahead of them, traffic is finally starting to clear. Braeden hits the accelerator. “You’ll see.”

*           *           *

The kid looks to be about 10, sandy brown hair, legs swinging beneath the bench because his feet don’t touch the ground. The tell-tale trash bag wedged in next to him makes Parrish clutch the Coke he’d picked up at the gas station a little tighter. “Who’s the kid?” he asks Arroyo, sliding into his chair

She shrugs. “You’ll have to ask Haines. He left on a call, came back with the kid.”

Parrish pulls out the Snickers bar he just bought himself. “Has CPS been called?”

“I would assume so,” says Arroyo, licking her finger and shuffling through a thick stack of paper on her desk.

“He’s a little young to be - ”

“What?” Arroyo snaps. “On his own? Yeah, probably. But I didn’t bring him in. Haines did, take it up with him. My ovaries don’t make me responsible for every kid who comes through. _Jesus.”_

“That wasn’t - ” Parrish scratches his head, decides it’s not worth starting a fight over, rises from his chair wordlessly. “Hey,” he says, still fiddling with the candy bar, “My name’s Jordan. What’s yours?”

The kid has a streak of dirt on his cheek. “Ryan,” he mumbles.

“How old’re you, Ryan?”

“Nine.”

Parrish tucks his fingers in his belt loops. “Been waiting long?”

Ryan shrugs, pressing his palms flat to the bench. “Not that long,” he mumbles.

“Well, has it been long enough to be hungry? Because I was thinking, if you don’t like Snickers, we could go back to the vending machine and get you something else.”

Whatever Ryan says next is unintelligible.

“I didn’t catch that, Ryan.”

The kid won’t make eye contact with Parrish. “I’m allergic to nuts,” he whispers.

Parrish freezes. But he recovers quickly. “Well, then, the Snickers is definitely out,” he says. He pulls out his wallet. “C’mon, my treat.”

Ryan hesitates. “You don’t - ”

“We’ve got Doritos,” says Parrish, and he knows he’s won. Ryan trudges after Parrish. “Nacho Cheesier or Cooler Ranch?” he asks, feeding a dollar into the machine.

“Um,” says Ryan, biting his lip, “I’ll take - ”

But he looks so torn Parrish fishes two more quarters out of his pocket and buys both kinds. The kid’s still stammering his thanks as they leave the break room. “Do you like cartoons?” Parrish asks, once Ryan is settled on the bench, licking neon orange cheese powder from his fingers. It’s not lost on Parrish that the second bag of chips goes into the trash bag. For later, he thinks, when things aren’t so bountiful.

Ryan nods.

“If you’ll sit tight,” Parrish says, “while I run out to my truck, I bet the two of us can figure out how to pull up some cartoons on my iPad.”

Ryan rubs his nose. “You don’t have to do that, Mister.”

“Jordan,” Parrish reminds Ryan, and he goes out to fetch the iPad, which Sue had bought while he was still at Walter Reed. He wonders if he should, like, set some parental controls, but he figures any 9-year-old, even one in the foster system, knows more about technology than he does. “Here,” he says, handing Ryan the tablet, Netflix already pulled up. “Nothing R-rated, or we’ll both be in trouble.”

Arroyo’s eyes follow Parrish back to his desk. “You’re good with kids,” she observes.

Parrish glances at Ryan, now mesmerized by whatever show he’s watching. “Yeah, well, it’s ridiculous how long CPS keeps kids in limbo.” There’s a bitterness there he can’t keep out of his voice.

“I shouldn’t have snapped at you,” Arroyo continues. “It was unfair, and - ”

“It’s fine.”

For this, she glares at him. “Will you let me apologize, Parrish? What you did for that kid, it was good of you. And you were decent to the kid the other night, too, though he didn’t deserve it.”

Parrish frowns. “What kid?”

“You know,” says Arroyo, nodding in the general direction of holding, “Caldwell, the murderer.”

Startled, Parrish says, “You don’t honestly think he did it, do you?”

Arroyo holds up both hands. “Hey, don’t look at me. I wasn’t the one rubbing shoulders with the mayor.”

Parrish makes a face. “You know McCall dragged me.”

“I know Stilinski elicited the confession,” says Arroyo, glancing at their boss’ closed door. “Why’s nobody talking about that, huh?”

He casts a sidelong glance to make sure Haines, two desks over, isn’t eavesdropping. “Stilinski doesn’t think Caldwell did it.” Arroyo snorts. Parrish shushes her. “Keep it down, will you? I don’t think it’s supposed to be common knowledge. Who’d you hear it from, anyway?”

“You,” says Arroyo, turning back to her paperwork. He just stares at her, incredulous, until she throws down her pen. “Oh, come on, Parrish. McCall’s a pencil pusher, everyone knows it. No way he got the kid to confess. He’d be strutting around the station if he had. But he’s hardly left his desk, not in two days. I just needed someone to confirm it.”

“Thanks a lot,” Parrish grumbles.

“Oh, you’re welcome,” Arroyo says smugly. Then she scoffs. “It figures Stilinski would extract a confession and still think the kid’s innocent.”

He decides to let this jab at John’s job performance slide. “You keep calling him a kid,” Parrish says thoughtfully.

“Caldwell? Yeah, well, murder or not, he’s only 17, isn’t he?”

Parrish thinks of Lydia, the same age, whom he’d been texting throughout his break. As if on cue, his phone buzzes. He fishes it from his pocket.

**LYDIA: What time do you get off? I don’t know if I can take another Friday night at Stiles’.**

**JORDAN: Breaks over Lydia told you I can’t text at work**

**LYDIA: So you said. Hence why I’m asking about after…**

**LYDIA: We could watch that movie you were telling me about.**

Parrish glances at Ryan, a kid who’s clearly been let down by the adults in his life, still giggling at his cartoon. He glances down at his phone and uses his thumb to scroll up through pages of texts with Lydia, still a kid by Arroyo’s definition.

_By anyone’s, really._

**JORDAN: Don’t think so. Not tonight**

And Parrish throws the phone in his desk drawer where he won’t be tempted to look at it, not when he knows Lydia will just send selfies until he relents.

Arroyo arches an eyebrow when his desk drawer vibrates, but she doesn’t say anything.

*           *           *

Braeden’s in the shower when Stiles calls on Sunday, or else Derek wouldn’t have answered. The mercenary isn’t the one with supernatural hearing, but he decides to take the call outside just in case. He pats his pocket - feels the outline of the room key - and pulls the door shut behind him.

“Dude,” says Stiles after giving Derek several seconds to formulate a greeting that never comes, “you were supposed to call.”

“Been busy,” Derek grunts, gripping the railing with one hand as he looks out over the parking lot of out-of-state plates.

Stiles’ tone is accusatory. “Too busy to let anyone know you’re alive? I was _this close_ to telling Scott what you’re up to.” Derek can imagine Stiles, a thousand miles away, holding his fingers a millimeter apart.

Derek swallows hard. He’ll have to tell Scott what happened in El Paso. There’s no way around it. “That would have been fine,” he says finally, reaching for the pack of cigarettes he’d bought at the last rest stop.

Stiles sighs. “So you’re OK?” Derek isn’t. “Did you find her?”

“Not exactly,” Derek says, fumbling with the lighter. His hands are shaking again. It takes him a couple tries.

“What was that?” Stiles wants to know. “And what’s that supposed to mean, huh? ‘Not exactly.’”

Derek takes a long, slow drag from the cigarette. It’s a bad habit, one he thought he’d left behind in New York. “We’ll talk when I get back.”

“When will that be?”

Derek shrugs noncommittally. “Soon.”

“Why do I get the feeling that means after the election?” Stiles complains. When Derek doesn’t answer, the teen continues, “Well, can you at least tell me if I was right? Ellen Taylor’s a hunter, isn’t she?”

They’re 500 miles from El Paso, yet the stench of blood still clings to Derek’s nostrils. _She’s the worst kind of hunter._ He swallows hard. “Yeah,” he confirms. “She’s a hunter.”

He braces for it, the triumphant squawk that’s sure to come. But instead Stiles mumbles, “Shit,” and clears his throat. “Are you OK, man?”

Derek’s really, really not. “I’ll see you Tuesday,” he says, and he hangs up the phone. He stares at the interstate on the other side of the flickering motel sign. He and Braeden are driving away from California, not toward it. He wouldn’t have to go back to Beacon Hills, not if he didn’t want to. He could sell his buildings, fly back once a year to decorate his family’s graves and catch up with Scott.

_But what about Stiles?_

Derek decides to smoke one more cigarette, watches as the sun sinks lower over the horizon. A towel-clad Braeden is standing in the doorway when he turns around.

Of course she catches him staring at the pale scars marring her dark flesh. “That costs extra,” she quips, letting the towel slip a little lower.

Derek glares at her. “Is there no limit to what you’ll do for money?” he snaps once they’re both inside the hotel room.

Her grip on his forearm is firm. “I’m just saying,” she hisses into his ear, “you look like you could use - ”

Braeden might be strong, but he’s still a werewolf. “I don’t have to pay for sex,” he says coolly.

Braeden doesn't answer, just begins rummaging around in her suitcase. She lets the towel fall, stepping into plain cotton panties. She picks the towel back up and starts drying her damp hair. “I wouldn't need you to pay me,” she says after a long minute. When Derek doesn't answer, she clears her throat. “Who were you talking to?”

He tears his eyes away from her chest. “How do you know I was talking to someone?” he fires back. He’s not happy with her, but he’s more angry with himself.

Braeden ticks off the reasons. “Your phone was in your back pocket, now it’s in your front. You went out on the balcony - ”

_“To smoke,”_ Derek interjects.

Braeden snorts. “Because you’re so worried about the cleaning fee, right.”

She has a point there. “Put some clothes on,” he grunts, and he flops down on the bed closest to the door. It’s just habit to put himself between the point of entry and any humans, though he’s certainly paying Braeden enough to let her deal first with any intruders.

She smirks as she pulls on an oversized t-shirt. “So, Stiles,” she says conversationally.

“What about him,” Derek grits. It’s not really a question.

Braeden asks one anyway. “How’d he lose the leg?”

The last thing Derek wants to think about is the bus crash. “I don’t know, why don’t you Google it?”

“Not supernatural, then.” Derek arches an eyebrow. “What?” Braeden says with a shrug. “If a werewolf ripped it off, it wouldn’t have made the papers.”

Hard to argue with that logic. “No,” he agrees, closing his eyes. The face of the elderly werewolf, mouth agape, swims into focus. Derek’s eyes fly open. He reaches for the cigarettes. He isn’t expecting Braeden’s hand to close around his. “I thought we established I can afford to lose the deposit.”

“I know what you’re trying to do, Derek,” she says softly.

“Do you?”

She doesn’t answer. He smokes one cigarette, then another. The nicotine dulls his senses just enough he might be able to sleep tonight. Derek rolls onto his side.

He smells it as soon as they exit the highway. Blood, and lots of it. Werewolf blood. “What have you done?” Derek snarls as Braeden parks. They’re in what looks like an abandoned industrial park on the outskirts of El Paso. They’re barely in the U.S. He can see the lights of Juarez in the distance.

“Me?” says Braeden, hopping out of the SUV. “I haven’t done anything.”

She unloads a small arsenal from the trunk. She offers him what looks like an assault rifle. He shakes his head.

“Your call,” she tells Derek, in a tone that tells him she thinks it’s the wrong one.

His claws come out as soon as they enter the warehouse. In here, he can smell not just blood but fear. Instinctively, Derek steps in front of Braeden.

“Nope,” she whispers, blocking him. “You’re the one paying me, remember?”

They creep silently through the cubicle farm. The business has been abandoned for several years, judging by a handful of dated computers. There’s a broken window and a busted copier, what look like invoices scattered everywhere. Derek picks one up. The paper, stamped with a date some five years previous, crumbles in  his hands.

“Did I say you could touch anything?”

Derek ignores her. The air is so coppery and metallic he can almost taste it, yet he hasn’t seen a single drop of blood. “What is this place?” he hisses. “Where are they?”

“Coyotes use it,” says Braeden, and they’re so close to Mexico that Derek knows she doesn’t mean the kind Malia ran with for many years. “Got a tip about a day ago that Ellen Taylor’s men had been through here.”

It’s the confirmation Derek came for. Stiles’ suspicions were correct. Malia’s birth mother hunts werewolves. Derek eyes Braeden’s gun. “You think she might still be here?”

Braeden snorts. “Please, like Ellen Taylor would bother with border jumpers. I said her men had been here, not her. But I’m not worried about them. U.S. Customs and Border Protections raids this place twice a month. No way Taylor’s men are still here. I’m more worried they didn’t finish the job.”

“Finish the job?”

“You know, leave one alive. A werewolf that’s just lost its entire pack is dangerous.”

It bothers Derek that she’s talking about werewolves like animals, not people. “Two heartbeats,” he tells Braeden. “Mine and yours.” He points to a door some 20 yards off. “There, through that door.”

The werewolf is young, younger than Derek, maybe not as young as the pack. With his tan skin and shock of dark hair, he could be Scott in a few years. His body is swollen with wolfsbane. “It was his job to keep watch,” Derek says.

Braeden just nudges the dead werewolf’s sneaker-clad feet out of the way. “He didn’t do a very good job,” she quips.

Derek glares at her. They find another body in the next room, two more in the room after that, until there’s a corpse at every turn. The oldest is in her 60s, curled protectively around a preteen girl. Most of their bodies are riddled with bullets. Two - the alpha and his strongest beta, if Derek had to guess - have been cut in half. They died with wide, terrified looks on their faces.

“She didn’t just kill them,” he says, horrified. “She tortured them.”

Braedon’s standing with her arms crossed, like eight dead werewolves are a mere curiosity. “I have gas cans in the car,” she tells Derek matter-of-factly. “We should torch the place.”

She’s right, of course. Eight bodies oozing black blood would trigger some sort of investigation. No, tomorrow’s headline will be, “Structure fire kills eight,” kicking off a fresh round of debate on illegal immigration.

Derek’s about to nod when he hears it. “What was that?” he demands.

Braeden must not have forgotten she’s with a werewolf after all because she immediately lifts her gun. “Come out, come out - ”

“Shhh,” Derek hisses, throwing out an arm to get her to lower the rifle. Another whimper. “It’s coming from over there.”

There’s one of those hazardous materials signs on the door. Derek tries the door handle. When it doesn’t budge, he rips it off the hinges.

The elderly werewolf hunkered down in the storage closet immediately lifts his hands. “No, no,” he mutters between gasps, skin black and taut across his bones. “Don’t hurt - ”

“I won’t,” Derek promises, dropping to a crouch. He holds his hands up in surrender. He’d flash his eyes, but he doesn’t want the dying werewolf to get the wrong impression. Instead, he takes the man’s hand. “Who did this?”

Derek braces for it, but the pain’s surprisingly manageable. The other werewolf is too far gone. “They followed us,” he whispers, dying, “from our home, they - ” his eyes close “ - they follow us.” He says something in Spanish, barely audible.

“You never hurt anyone?” Derek translates.

_“Habla español?”_ the old werewolf croaks, eyes fluttering open. _“Nos siguieron desde nuestra casa.”_ Panting, the other werewolf tells Derek how his family fled Mexico to escape a gang of hunters.

“The Calaveras,” Derek says flatly.

To his surprise, the old werewolf shakes his head weakly. “No, not Araya.” He makes a fist and touches it to his chest. _“Mi amiga.”_

“Araya was your friend?” Nothing. Derek tries in Spanish, _“Araya era tu amiga?”_

The old werewolf begins coughing up black blood. “ _Traía un hombre lobo consigo.”_

“Who?” Derek demands. “Who had a werewolf with him?”

“Help,” the dying man wheezes, _“help.”_

Behind him, Braeden’s voice is soft. “Derek, he’s too far gone. We have to put him out of his misery.” _You have to put him out of his misery._

Derek’s still holding the old man’s hand. “You have wolfsbane in the car,” he says desperately. “Maybe it’s not too - ”

“Derek.”

Once again, she’s right. Derek takes a deep breath, and he drives his claws into the werewolf’s barely-beating heart. The old man gasps, eyes flashing yellow. His body goes limp.

“Derek! Derek!”

He wakes up spluttering, choking on the smell of burning flesh, just as he had when they left El Paso. Before he can shove her off, Braeden hooks him under the arms and drags him until he’s sitting up. _“Sit,”_ she tells him, like some damned obedient dog, and Derek’s glowering when she returns from the bathroom. “Here,” says Braeden, pressing a glass of water in his hand, “drink.”

He does, but only to clear the acrid smoke from his lungs. It takes him a second to realize what he’s tasting is cigarette smoke. They’d torched the warehouse two days ago, triggering all sorts of scent-memories Derek would rather forget. He hands Braeden the empty water glass.

“Another?”

Derek shakes his head. He digs his fists into the mattress, shoulders tightening as she smooths a hand over his back. “I’m fine,” he snaps.

But Braeden doesn’t budge. She mutters something that sounds a lot like, “Keep telling yourself that,” though Derek’s not really listening.

His eyes flash blue. _“Get off me,”_ he growls.

At this, Braeden smirks, though she does withdraw her hand and shift several inches so their thighs aren’t touching. “I’m only trying to help, Derek.”

“Well, stop it,” he bites, glaring at her. It’s gratifying when she finally gets up and plops down on her own bed. Derek doesn’t get the mileage he once did from shooting sour looks at the pack.

“You asked me earlier, if there’s a limit to what I’ll do for money?” Braeden doesn’t want for him to answer. “I wouldn’t work for Ellen Taylor, for starters.”

Derek snorts. “Sure, you’d turn her down if she called tomorrow offering to double my money.”

The pillow hits him square in the chest. “I mean it, Derek,” Braeden says firmly. “Ellen Taylor’s completely deranged. She’s not a hunter. She’s not even a mercenary. That’d require her to care about the money, and she doesn’t. She just wants to kill as many werewolves as she can.”

“Why?” Derek wants to know.

“You mean, why did I drag you halfway across the country to show you a dead werewolf pack? Easy,” says Braeden, “charging you $5,000 to confirm Ellen Taylor hates werewolves wouldn’t have had the same effect.”

Derek doesn’t have much luck putting the dead werewolves out of his mind. “Which was what, to scar me for life?”

Braeden shrugs, sliding off the bed. “You’ve seen worse.”

Derek has, but he’ll be damned if he admits that to Braeden. “Well, message received. Don’t go looking for her.”

“I never said that,” Braeden says, pulling the curtains aside. The waning moon hangs low in the sky, calling to Derek’s wolf in a way he’ll never be able to explain to Braeden or any other human. He’s not even sure Scott, true alpha, _chosen one,_ feels it as intensely. “When I was just out of school I fell in with a crowd that was really into magic. A few of them were like me, kids of emissaries who’d grown up knowing about the supernatural. Most of them, though, came from totally ordinary families and were pretty ordinary themselves.”

“Go on,” says Derek. He’s not surprised to learn Braeden’s a spark but a little surprised she’s so forthcoming about it.

Braedon nods, a quick little jerk of the chin, and Derek realizes she’s steeling herself to tell him what happened next. “One of them, though, Brian, had actual powers. He would have made a great emissary someday.” She says this wistfully, which tells Derek two things: Brian’s dead, and Braeden had loved him. “Probably because it was actually real to him, Brian almost always turned the others down when they brought him a ritual to try. But one night, he said yes. While the others chanted, Brian slipped on the skin of a bear, never expecting he’d become a bear. In three days, he killed seven people, including everyone who’d helped him become a berserker.”

Derek’s head snaps up on the word _berserker_ because he knows this story. Knows how it ends. “You called in hunters.”

“Actually,” says Braeden, “I called Ellen Taylor. I’d grown up hearing werewolves whisper her name in hushed tones. I figured she could help. I knew she might have to kill Brian to keep him from hurting anyone else. But rather than kill him, she freed him from his mountain ash prison. She thought she could use him to kill werewolves.”

At this, Derek flinches. “He tore them apart.”

“Pretty much,” says Braeden. “He destroyed two packs and was ripping his way through a third when the hunters his parents hired to clean up Ellen’s mess finally arrived. The hunters didn’t try to save Brian. They just put down the berserker and left town.”

“And what, you became a mercenary?” Derek wants to know, feeling like she’s handed him a bag of puzzle pieces that don’t necessarily fit the one he’s been working. When Braeden nods, he asks, a little savagely, “In hopes of what, amassing enough favors you might be able to take Ellen on someday?”

But all Braeden does is smile. “And here I thought you wouldn’t take much convincing. I thought you’d be dying to go after the woman who set Kate Argent on your family.”

It’s a good thing Derek’s sitting down. “The woman who what?”

“You heard me,” says Braeden, crossing her arms. “You have two options. Either you come with me, maybe have a shot at avenging your family. Or you can go back to Beacon Hills, wait to see what Ellen does when she finds out the child Peter Hale fathered is alive. So, Derek, what’ll it be?”

*           *           *

“You’re late,” Rafe informs Scott when he finally gets to Square Pizza. He pushes a basket of buffalo wings across the table. “Saved these for you.”

Scott pulls his hands from the pockets of his hoodie. “Thanks,” he says, biting into one. It’s not bad cold. “I had to take Stiles to PT.”

Rafe arches an eyebrow. “Stilinski doesn’t do that?”

“It’s in the middle of the afternoon, Dad. You’re telling me you could take off early three days a week?”

“For you, I would,” says Rafe, snapping his fingers at a passing waitress. “A large meat lover’s,” he tells her, then points at Scott. “Plus whatever my son here wants.”

“I’m not actually your server, sir,” the girl says.

“Yeah?” replies Rafe. “Then why don’t you go tell our waitress we’re ready to order - ” he takes a swig of his Heineken “ - and to get me another beer.”

Scott sinks a little lower in the booth.

“So,” Rafe continues, “how often do you get stuck taking Stiles to PT?”

Scott only took Stiles to PT because Derek’s still gone, but he shrugs noncommittally. “We all help out.”

Rafe drags the last wing through a puddle of blue cheese dressing. “We?” he says skeptically. “Who’s we?”

Scott seriously debates not telling his dad about the smear of buffalo sauce on his cheek, but in the end he mimes wiping his face. “You know, Stiles’ friends.”

“Wasn’t aware Stiles had other friends.”

The waitress arrives, clearly flustered, to take their order. “So sorry,” she gushes, pulling out her order pad, “a party of 12 just - ”

“Yeah, a large meat lover’s,” Rafe repeats. He holds up the empty green bottle. “And another beer.”

Scott’s trying to figure out why the waitress looks so familiar. “You’re one of Deaton’s patients, aren’t you?” he asks. “Well, your cat is. Tibbers, right?”

She manages a watery smile. “Was,” she tells Scott sadly. “He passed away last month.”

“No!” says Scott. The waitress nods. “Oh, man. I’m so sorry to hear that. He was a great cat. He never stopped purring.”

Rafe taps the table impatiently. “Yeah, yeah, great cat. Scott, she’s working.”

Scott smiles apologetically. “Uh, just make it two meat lover’s,” he says. “So sorry, really, about Tibbers. I’ll let Dr. Deaton know.”

Rafe practically shoves the menus into her hand. “Talking about her dead cat.” He shakes his head.

“I’m the one who asked,” Scott says irritably. He’d rather be anywhere but a restaurant with his dad, but the other day he’d overheard Rafe threatening to stop paying child support at the end of the school year. His mom had made it perfectly clear she didn’t expect Scott to put up with his dad for her sake, but he also knows she can’t pick up enough shifts to pay the mortgage on her own.

“You were telling me about Stiles,” Rafe reminds his son.

“No, you were asking about Stiles,” says Scott, trying in vain to keep the annoyance out of his voice. He plucks the bottle of ketchup off the table and begins idly reading the ingredients.

Rafe kicks his son under the table. “Hey, come on,” he prods. “I saw Stiles this weekend. He was at the station with his dad.”

“OK.”

“He’s still not off crutches?”

Scott’s head jerks up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“C’mon, it’s been what, three, four months?” Rafe asks. “If he was going to walk on his own, he’d have done it by now.”

“How do you know he hasn’t?” Scott challenges.

Rafe throws his hands up. “Hey, you’re the one who takes him to PT.”

Though not an hour earlier Scott had accused his best friend of not trying very hard, he defends Stiles to his dad. “He’s making progress, OK?” He realizes he’s fiddling with the ketchup bottle again. He sets it down. “Can you just drop it?”

“Well,” Rafe says diplomatically, “how’s Kira?”

Of course Rafe would pick the one topic he wants to discuss less than Stiles. “Good,” Scott says hastily. “She’s good.”

He doesn’t like the way his dad bites his cheek. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” says Scott, forcing a smile. It had been Kira’s first day back at school, and though her parents had relented and let him visit over the weekend, he still felt like a chasm had opened between them. She’d been polite but distant at lunch, then disappeared before he could find her after school.

Not to mention Mr. Yukimura, all but ignoring him in class.

The waitress drops off Rafe’s beer. He takes a sip. “That’s it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Usually I can’t get you to shut up about Kira.”

Strictly speaking, what Scott says next is true. “We just haven’t been able to spend much time together lately, that’s all.”

It’s a perfectly reasonable explanation, much more reasonable than _I told her I loved her, which freaked her out so badly she electrocuted me, which made the werewolf I shift into sometimes try to rip her apart._

Rafe nods. “School, sports. Hey, speaking of which, how’d the meet go Saturday?”

Scott blinks. “What meet?”

“The big cross country invitational,” says Rafe. He frowns. “That was this weekend, wasn’t it? I could have sworn I heard a couple of the guys talking about it.”

“It was,” Scott confirms.

“Well,” his dad demands, “how’d you do?”

“I didn’t run.” He clears his throat. “I actually quit cross country. Yeah, uh, a couple weeks ago. You know, after Coach got fired.” Scott nervously shreds a straw wrapper. “I only ran because he required it as part of off-season conditioning, and since I’m not playing lacrosse - ”

But his dad isn’t listening. “Back up, back up,” he interrupts. “You quit the cross country team?” Scott nods. “And you’re not playing lacrosse?”

OK, so maybe his dad was listening. “I mean, it won’t be much of a team this - ”

Rafe’s shaking his head. “No,” he tells his son. “No, nuh-uh. I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Did your mother put you up this?”

“What? No,” says Scott, incredulous. “I don’t even think she _knows_ I quit.”

“Typical,” Rafe mutters. “Your mother never seems to know what’s - ”

“It wasn’t her decision, OK?” He glares at his dad right as the waitress appears with two pizzas. She seems to realize she’s walking into an argument and beats a hasty retreat. Neither McCall reaches for a slice. “I just don’t want to play anymore.”

“And what’s going to happen, Scott, when all the recruiters who came to watch you last season call? You’re really going to tell them you don’t feel like playing?”

Scott glares at his dad for a long moment before grabbing a piece of pizza. But only because his stomach’s growling. “I think they’ll understand, Dad, after what happened.”

Rafe looks at his son quizzically.

He _actually_ looks at Scott quizzically.

“The bus crash?” Scott reminds his dad.

Rafe sucks a finger into his mouth after accidentally touching the hot pan. He pulls it out with a wet pop. “Oh,” he says. “You’re serious.”

Now _really_ annoyed, Scott says, “’Course I’m serious,” he says. “Stiles almost died, Dad. A lot of guys did. My friend Danny?” He thinks of Danny, and he loses some of his appetite.

“So Stiles won’t be there to ride the bench,” Rafe counters through a mouthful of cheese. “I don’t see why that means you can’t play.”

“I watched my friends die,” Scott says angrily. “Do you have any idea what that’s - ”

“Oh, come on,” Rafe interrupts. “You expect me to buy that crap? So you saw a little blood, feel a little survivor’s guilt. You walked away without a scratch, Scott. If that’s not a sign, I don’t know what is.”

_You don’t get it, do you?_ “Can we just - not fight, for once?”

“We’re not fighting.”

They eat the rest of the meal in silence. Rafe whips out his FBI-issued credit card at the end and writes a big, fat zero in the tip line. Scott “forgets” his jacket and throws down a ten while his dad huffs impatiently at the door. “Hey,” he says when the waitress comes to bus the table, “I’m really sorry about Tibbers. I’m not just saying he was a great cat to make you feel better. I know Dr. Deaton will be crushed.”

The veterinarian sends a condolence card every time one of his clients loses a pet.

The waitress bites her lip.

“Headed over to Kira’s?” Rafe wants to know.

Scott shakes his head. “Lydia’s,” he says.

His dad punches his shoulder. “Atta boy, Scott.”

Scott scowls, rubs his arm. “I’m with Kira,” he reminds his dad. “Lydia’s just going to help me with some math homework. I have a pre-calc test this week.”

“Uh-huh,” says Rafe in a disbelieving tone Scott doesn’t like. “Well, make that ‘studying’ count, then.” His fingers curl into air quotes.

“Really, Dad, we’re just studying,” Scott says, reaching for his helmet.

Rafe taps the handle bars. “Tell you what,” he says, “if you’ll just play lacrosse this year, I’ll buy you a car to replace this stupid bike. Same time next week?”

Scott _likes_ his bike. He shrugs. “Yeah, OK.”

His dad waves. “Love you, kid.”

*           *           *

It’s not the third time or even the thirtieth that Stiles checks his phone, but he’s still holding out hope that his dad will have finally replied to his texts. Has to. Because the alternative, well.

Stiles’ phone rings. _“Hello?”_

But it’s only Scott, checking in. “He still isn’t home?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to see if I can find - ”

“You don’t have to do that,” Stiles interrupts. “I’m sure it’s fine. Go, have fun with Kira.”

There’s a pause. “Stiles, it’s 10. I already took her home.” He can hear Scott fidgeting with something, his helmet maybe. He’s probably still parked on the Yukimuras’ street. “Seriously, I’ll just do a quick search on my way home. It wouldn’t be any - ”

Stiles isn’t listening. Someone’s just turned into the driveway. “I have to go, Scott,” he interrupts. He swallows hard and reaches for his crutches. His dad always comes through the garage.

His heart sinks when he sees the squad car in the driveway. Stiles covers his mouth. His heart beats very fast as he watches Parrish get out first. He’s a good choice, Stiles thinks. _Send someone the family knows, if you can._ That had been his dad’s first rule for death notifications. Stiles can feel the panic starting to grip him. He’ll hyperventilate when they tell him. _No, not him,_ he pleads. _Not tonight._

The passenger door swings open. Stiles feels like he’s watching his life unravel in slow motion. Thirty seconds until his world’s upended ... 29 ... 28 ... 27 ...

His dad straightens.

Stiles throws open the screen door with a bang. “Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?” he demands, crutch catching on the door lip when he tries to hustle toward the sheriff. “What the hell happened? Why haven’t you answered any of my - ”

John lurches forward on unsteady feet.

“You’re - ” _drunk._ But Stiles lets the accusation die rather than vocalize it in front of Parrish. He snorts. Like the deputy doesn’t know. “Thanks for bringing him home,” he says flatly.

Parrish looks like he wants to say something. His eyes follow the stumbling sheriff up the walk, make sure he gets in OK. He opens his mouth. He closes it.

Stiles is holding the door open for his dad. “Just get out of here, Parrish,” he mutters under his breath. “Just go.”

Parrish does.

Once he’s got the door locked, Stiles asks angrily, “Well? Got anything to say for yourself?”

“Oh, relax,” John says, inadvertently bumping the hutch with an elbow as he folds his arms. “I had a couple of drinks at Mike’s, that’s all.”

“Uh huh,” says Stiles, who hasn’t forgotten what a night at Mike’s Tavern, the cop bar down the street from the station, looks like. “With the guys, right? Parrish was nice enough to offer you a ride home?”

“Something like that,” John calls, lumbering into the living room. He cuts the corner too close, rams his shoulder into the wall. He doesn’t seem to notice.

Stiles trails after his dad, a clearer picture of what transpired forming. His dad was scheduled off at 6. He’d texted Stiles at a quarter after saying he was just finishing up some paperwork. But at 7, when the polls closed, the sheriff still wasn’t home. _Probably popped into Mike’s for a drink to take the edge off._ Of course, a Mike’s night never ends with one drink. No, if Stiles had to guess, it was the eponymous bartender who called Parrish, hoping to save the the soon-to-be-former sheriff some face.

John’s having trouble with the remote. “Why - won’t - ” he’s just jabbing random buttons “ - this - stupid - thing - work?”

“Because you have to point it at the TV, Dad,” says Stiles, yanking the remote out of his father’s hands. The sheriff’s face fills one half of the screen; Wyatt Brown’s, the other.

John grimaces. “Ah, come on,” he complains. “Why’d they have to pick that photo?”

Stiles barely glances at the TV, sure they’re using his dad’s official portrait, the one taken hastily nine years ago in the wake of Sheriff Cobb’s death. “Would you prefer something more recent?” he says sarcastically. “How about one taken over a double at Mike’s?” He lets his weight drop to the couch. He’s still holding the remote. “I’d be more worried about your poll numbers, Dad.”

That’s when the sheriff starts groping for the power button. He runs his fingers along the edge of the TV, doesn’t find it. John stalks over to the wall and unplugs the entire entertainment center.

“Well, that’s it,” he declares. “Pack your bags.”

Stiles hastily swipes his eyes with the back of his hand. First Derek, who’d promised to come back but hadn’t, now his dad. Stiles had been genuinely afraid the sheriff had gotten in an accident on his way home from work. Glumly, he asks, “Are we going somewhere?”

John nods. “Yeah,” he grunts, “Denise’s.”

“Wait, Aunt Denise’s?” Stiles’ foot slides off the edge of the coffee table. “In Cleveland? Why?” He limps into the kitchen after his dad. “Dad, you’re not serious. We can’t - ”

John turns on his son. “Yes, we can,” he snaps. “It’s time to accept reality, Stiles. This town - it never wanted me, never - ” he shakes his head, presses a palm to his temple. “Who asks - who asks a guy whose wife is dying to do that job? It’s a - it’s a terrible job,” he slurs. “Brown wants it, let him have it.”

He’s not telling his son anything Stiles doesn’t already know. Because John’s right. Why _would_ you ask a guy whose wife was dying and whose son was acting out at every turn to take over as sheriff? Unless there were no other takers. His dad had only won the two subsequent elections because he was running unopposed.

Beacon Hills’ strange reputation precedes it.

“What about the house?” Stiles says. “You’ll have to sell the house. What about school, huh? And - ”

“And what, Stiles? It’s like you forget what this town has taken from you.” He stares at his son’s artificial left leg like the wolves sometimes do, almost like they can see his prosthetic through his pants.

“PT,” Stiles throws out there. “I’ve still got months of - ”

John hiccoughs. “There are physical therapists in Ohio.”

Desperately, Stiles tries, “What about my friends, Dad? What about Scott - ”

_“What about me, Stiles?”_ his dad roars. “I stayed in this godforsaken town after your mother died for you, and look where it got us. Look where it got us!” With a sweep of his arm, John knocks the day’s mail off the counter. Past due notices and unpaid bills - more arrive every day - flutter to the ground. “What about me?”

And he stalks upstairs where his son can’t follow.

*           *           *

“Need a hand?”

John’s head snaps up from the stack of papers he’s been sorting. Two piles: one to take, one to leave for the new sheriff. He should have started days ago. John stares at the alpha. “Scott,” he says finally, “you startled me.”

Scott hovers in the doorway, thumbs tucked beneath his backpack straps. “I was on my way to school,” he tells John, “and I saw the Jeep outside.”

John nods at a stack of half-packed boxes. “I thought it might be able to do it in one trip.”

Now Scott’s dropping his backpack on the lumpy couch. “Let me help you,” he offers. “Which ones are ready to go out?”

“Won’t you be late for school?”

Scott shrugs. “I’ve got a little time.”

John scratches his chin. “The ones by the door, they’re full.”

He watches, curiously, as Scott hefts three at a time. He glances at the clock. John needs to work faster. He’d meant to get an earlier start than he did.

He’d meant to drink less last night, too.

John grimaces, rubs his aching shoulder. He must have hit it on something leaving Mike’s. His head is pounding. He stares at the papers, invoices and files littering his desk. _So Brown inherits a messy office with a few open cases. So what?_ John’s tempted to drop it all in the second pile, the one for his successor, but he continues sorting.

When Scott returns for another load, John asks, “Stiles put you up to this?”

The alpha freezes. _Busted._ “He thought you could use some help, yeah.”

“Funny,” says John, “since he hardly said two words to me this morning.”

Scott runs a finger along the edge of a box. “You know, he was pretty worried about you last night,” he says after a minute. “Thought there might have been an accident.”

“I get that.”

“He said you told him about Ohio.”

“Did you tell him how long you’ve known?”

Scott blinks. “How’d you - ”

“I know you heard me tell your mom the other day,” says John. “Frankly, I thought it was only a matter of time before Stiles got wind of it. But you didn’t tell him, did you?”

“No.”

“I know you’re going to tell me he can stay with you and your mom, Scott,” John continues. “It’s kind of you to offer, but this time I’m going to have to put my foot down. This town isn’t good for him, Scott. He needs a fresh start.”

“Can’t it wait?” There’s a tinge of desperation in Scott’s voice. “I mean, it’s senior year. We’ll all be leaving for college next fall. Stiles can - ”

“Stiles isn’t going to graduate with your class, Scott,” John interrupts. “Not at this rate, he isn’t. I hate that it has to be this way, but I’m trying to think about his future. Now go on, get to school.”

Scott insists on picking up three more boxes. “I can swing by the house later,” he says, “to help you - ”

Out of the corner of his eye, John can see Rafe unlocking the conference room. “I’ll get Derek to do it,” he says, now trying to hustle Scott out the door for reasons that have nothing to do with tardiness.

Now Rafe’s getting coffee, and Scott shows no sign of leaving. “But when will that be?” he asks, brow furrowed. “He’s not - ”

John grabs his phone. “Tomorrow?” he guesses, showing Scott what the other werewolf texted that morning. “‘I’m back, but I can’t take Stiles to PT until Thursday.’ That was at 6:15 a.m.” He doesn’t add that Derek’s message had woken him up.

“Oh,” says Scott. He seems to remember he’s holding three very heavy boxes. “I should go.”

“Thanks for dropping by, Scott,” says John, wondering if he’ll get even thirty seconds of peace before the McCall he likes far less descends.

Rafe doesn’t waste his time. “I see you’ve got my kid carrying your stuff out,” he says, taking a sip of coffee. “Didn’t even stop to say hello to his old man.”

“Do you need something, McCall?”

“Actually, yeah,” says Rafe, pulling the door shut. He tosses a file on John’s desk. “Here.”

John tries to hand it back. “I’m not the sheriff anymore,” he reminds Rafe, who buries his hands in his pockets so he can’t take the file. John sighs as he flips it open. “What is this?” he asks, skimming what looks like a top sheet from the crime lab in Sacramento. “Blood analysis? Which case?”

“The murders. The blood on the clothes in Caldwell’s car didn’t come from either victim,” says Rafe. He gives John a full minute. “Well? ‘I told you so.’ That’s your line.”

John hands the file back. “I’m not the one you should be showing that.”

“Brown’s already seen it.”

“So what’s his take?” John asks, trying not to think about the fact Rafe probably took this to the sheriff-elect before he’d even been voted out.

“Wasn’t too concerned.”

John’s not surprised. As much as he’d like not to be, though, it’s in his nature to be helpful. “You could be looking for another victim, you could be - ”

“The first thing I did when I got those results was check on every paramedic, trooper and deputy who was at the scene,” Rafe cuts in. “They’re all fine.”

John needs another cup of coffee. “Well, good luck,” he says, reaching for his mug.

“You’re going to want to hear this, Stilinski,” Rafe calls. “I’m flipping through Caldwell’s file, and I notice he wore number 43.”

John’s holding the door handle. “Right.”

“The bloody jersey we sent to Sacramento was number 22.”

John winces. “That was his brother’s number.”

“You think you could have told me that,” says Rafe, like he hadn’t snatched the evidence away before John had a chance to examine it. “Crime lab confirmed it, blood’s a family match. Must’ve been what the brother was wearing when he died.”

This makes John grimace. He’d been asked at the hospital if he wanted the clothes Stiles had been wearing back. His answer had been an unequivocal no. “And he was driving around with it in the trunk?”

“Must’ve been,” says Rafe. “Morbid, huh?”

It’s not the word John would have used. “So when will he be released?”

“I, uh - ” suddenly Rafe is very interested in his shoes. “ - never said he would. The prosecutor still thinks we have a case. Between the threats Caldwell painted on the bus and the confession, I’m inclined to agree.”

John puffs his cheeks out. “So you’re going to pin two brutal homicides on a teenager so mad with grief he’s carrying around the clothes his brother died in?”

“Oh, c’mon, of course it sounds bad when you say it like that,” Rafe protests. “You know - ”

“No, I don’t,” John interrupts. “Have fun with the new sheriff. You two deserve each other.” He slams the door behind him, leaves Rafe alone in his office. His old office. His headache’s worse. His shoulder throbs.

The door clatters open. “Hey,” Rafe hollers after John, “I’m not the one pressing charges.”

“Oh yeah? Thank you, for that reminder of how the criminal justice system works,” John retorts, furious. He realizes, too late, that every eye in the station is on him. “You think you know what’s going on, but you don’t,” he says. The deputies get a glare, too. _“None of you do.”_

*           *           *

Malia’s not sure what to expect when she comes downstairs Wednesday, her 18th birthday. She doubts her dad will have set the letter from her birth mom out with the orange juice, but she isn’t sure how to broach the subject if he’s forgotten. She frowns when she gets down to the kitchen, which is strangely empty. “Dad?” she calls. No answer.

Mr. Tate isn’t much of a cook, but he’s fond of telling Malia breakfast is the most important meal of the day. He makes omelets on the weekends, French toast on special occasions. If he has to be at work before Malia leaves for school, there will breakfast bars on the counter and a note telling her to have a good day.

But this morning, it looks like Malia will have to fend for herself. She pads barefoot across the drafty kitchen, pulling the sleeves of her hoodie - OK, one she stole from Stiles - over her hands, and begins to rummage through the cabinet. She pulls out a box of Cheerios and gives it a shake. “Dad,” she yells, “we’re almost out of cereal.”

Again, no answer.

Now Malia’s starting to get worried. She spies Apollo, who’d usually be waiting patiently for Mr. Tate to pour a big bowl of his senior dog food, at the back door. He whines appreciatively when Malia scratches his ears. “Where’s Dad, Apollo?”

That’s when she sees Mr. Tate, outside struggling to tie a big bow around a little red car. Malia’s eyes go wide. She doesn’t bother putting on shoes, just races outside. “Is that - is that for me?”

Mr. Tate almost whacks his head in his haste to get out of the car. “I wanted it to be a surprise,” he tells his daughter apologetically, still holding the bow he’d been trying to tie around the car. “Do you - like it?”

Malia opens the driver’s side door and traces the Chevrolet logo on the steering wheel, the cold wind whipping her hair. She tucks a loose strand behind her ear as the too-big hoodie slides off her shoulder. “Yeah, but - ” she shrugs “ - I don’t know how to drive.”

“Well,” says Mr. Tate, “I’ll teach you.” He wraps his arm around Malia and gives her a squeeze. “Now let’s get you inside before you freeze. French toast?”

Malia doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth, _but her dad just bought her a car,_ so she nods. She watches Mr. Tate crack two eggs into a mixing bowl, unsure how to bring up the letter. He tells her all about the car, a brand new Chevy Cruze. “Now I went ahead and got you the automatic,” her father is saying, “because I think it’ll be easier for you starting out. If you eventually want to learn to drive a stick, you can learn on the - ”

“Did you feed Apollo?” Malia interrupts.

Mr. Tate blinks. He looks taken aback, but he recovers quickly. “No, sweetie. Do you mind?”

Malia shakes her head. The sound of kibble raining down on ceramic drowns her dad out for a moment. She feels dizzy. She should sit down.

Her dad bought her a _car._

A _new_ car.

He’s never even bought _himself_ a new car, at least not that Malia can recall. Last winter he’d still been driving the truck he’d had when she was little, though not long after he’d hit a deer and had to replace it. Still, the truck he’d bought had 100,000 miles on it.

“Malia?” Mr. Tate says, snapping the werecoyote out of her trance. “Are you OK? Is it the color? I knew I shouldn’t have gotten red. I let the guy at the dealer - ”

“Red’s fine, Dad,” Malia interrupts. Her mouth is dry. She sits back down at the table. There are three envelopes sitting at her seat that Mr. Tate must have set out while she fed Apollo. One of them is from her birth mother. She recognizes the battered envelope Stiles had given her to slip back in the safe. “But why are there three?”

The French toast is sizzling on the stove. Mr. Tate scratches his chin. “Well,” he says slowly, “it was your mom’s idea. We had the letter from your birth mom. She was - ” he’s never told Malia this before “ - one of your mom’s students, actually. Poor thing, she was only 17.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, her parents kicked her out when she found out she was pregnant. You know how your mom was, of course she offered her a place to stay. Wouldn’t take it. She just - took off. We figured she’d gotten an abortion, except she called your mom seven months later from a Texas hospital and asked if we’d adopt you.”

It takes Malia a minute to process all this. “You knew my birth mom?”

“We always planned to tell you,” Mr. Tate continues. “The Taylors used to live just up the road. I don’t think Ellie’s been back to Beacon Hills, but your mom and I thought we might introduce you to your biological grandparents someday. We wanted you to be old enough to understand who they were first, 9 maybe, if not 10.”

Malia had ripped her mother and sister to shreds two days after her ninth birthday. She stares at the other two envelopes, which also have her name written on the front. “Are these from them?” she guesses. “My grandparents?”

“Actually,” says Mr. Tate, “they’re from me and your mother. Before we flew back to California, Ellie asked if she could write you a letter to open on your 18th birthday. Your mom thought it’d be neat if we did the same.” He smiles ruefully. “Your mom’s ended up being a little longer than mine.”

Malia picks up the thicker of the two envelopes and sets down the one from Ellen. She’d had a chance to read weeks earlier, after Stiles made copies and asked her to return the original to the safe. She hadn’t then, and she sets it aside now. “Dad?” she asks. “What happened to them?”

He’s momentarily distracted by the syrup for the French toast. “Who? Ellen’s parents?” Malia nods. Mr. Tate winces. “Unfortunately, they died a few years back.”

“How?”

“Malia - ”

_“How?”_

He sighs. “They were shot in a burglary,” he says finally. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I wish you’d had a chance to meet them.”

Malia bites her lip, and rips into Evelyn Tate’s letter first. Her mom had taught English at Beacon Hills High School, and the letter she wrote back in ’94 is eight pages long. Malia covers her mouth as she reads, a lump welling up in her throat. Her dad doesn’t say anything, just slides a plate piled high with French toast onto the table next to her.

_And Malia, if for some reason I am not there to celebrate with you today, know this - I love you so much, my sweet baby girl, and I couldn’t be happier to be your mother._

_Love always,_

_Mom_

Tears streaming down her cheeks, Malia reaches for a napkin. Her father stands up so fast he almost spills his coffee. “Here,” he says, returning with a box of tissues. She tries to trade him, but Mr. Tate won’t take the letter. “Your mother meant it for you,” he says firmly.

Malia blows her nose loudly. “Is it OK if I read yours?”

“If you want,” he says. He hasn’t touched his breakfast yet, either. “It might be a bit of a letdown after your mother’s, I’m afraid.”

She tucks her mother’s letter under the edge of her placemat and rips into her father’s. It’s much shorter - just one page - scrawled in his chaotic hand on either side of a slip of hotel stationery.

_To my daughter Malia,_ the letter begins.

_How strange it is to write those words after wanting a child for so long._

_It’s also strange to be writing a letter you won’t read for 18 years. When your mother suggested it, I told her I wouldn’t know what to say. But you know who won THAT argument._

_I’ve probably told you this before, but you were the most beautiful baby in the nursery. You were so alert and active I pointed right at you and told your mother I’d slip the nurse $10 to bring you out instead of whichever one we’d been assigned. Your mother didn’t think this was very funny. When the nurse brought you out and put you in my arms, I knew I had seriously undervalued you. You were worth a bribe of $15 at least._

_Sweet, beautiful baby girl, I hope you have gotten used to my terrible jokes these 18 years. I plan to make a lot of them so I will thoroughly earn the eye roll you are no doubt giving me!_

_Right now you are asleep in the carrier we bought at the Abilene Wal-Mart. We don’t even have a crib at home. I am sure we will make lots of mistakes and you will no doubt tell us about them, like you did last night when you screamed from 1-4 AM._

_I look at you in your little pink onesie (a new word I learned yesterday) and I do not know what kind of woman you will grow up to be. But I know I will love her with all of my heart. Happy 18th birthday, my Malia._

_Your father,_

_Henry_

She ends up bawling into her dad’s soft flannel shirt for a long time, until the French toast is cold and hard as a rock, until she’s going to be late for school and he’s going to be late for work. She tells Mr. Tate, “I miss all the dumb jokes you used to make,” which ends up making her cry harder.

“I’m sorry,” Malia says, over and over, until Apollo barks he’s so concerned about her wailing. She ends up pulling the old dog in for a hug, too.

“Why?” Mr. Tate asks. “You have nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart.” He pushes the letter from Ellen Taylor toward her. “One more,” he says, a sad smile on his face.

For months now, Malia has wanted to find her birth mother to ask one, specific question: did you know? She’s never wanted to replace her mother, only to find out if the accident that killed her could somehow have been avoided. That’s why she slides Ellen’s letter back across the table to her father. “Here,” she says. “This one can go back in the safe.”

“You’re not going to read it?”

“No,” says Malia, patting his letter and her mom’s. “Everything I need to know about my parents is right here.”

*           *           *

“What makes you so sure he’s back?” Stiles asks Scott as the elevator lurches slowly toward Derek’s loft. He squints suspiciously at the alpha. What he’s really asking is why Scott knew and he didn’t.

“Well,” Scott says slowly, like he recognizes this is a loaded question, “I can hear him banging around upstairs.” This statement is punctuated with a thud even Stiles can hear.

It makes him grip his crutches a little tighter. “That didn’t sound good,” Stiles says in what might pass as a casual voice if his heart weren’t beating so damn fast. “Derek’s not exactly, you know, loud, either. What if he’s - ”

“He’s alone,” Scott interrupts. There’s another crash overhead. “I only count three heartbeats.”

“OK, but it might not be his. He could be - ”

“Stiles, it’s him,” Scott says firmly. “It smells like him, it sounds like him. Did he really not tell you he was back?” When Stiles doesn’t answer, just stares fixedly at the elevator dial as they ascend, the alpha sighs. “If it makes you feel any better, it’s not like he told me, either.”

It doesn’t. “Somehow, you still knew,” Stiles points out.

“Only because your dad told me this morning Derek was back but couldn’t take you to PT until tomorrow.”

This makes Stiles feel even worse. But there’s no time to complain about how he’s the last to know everything because the doors open with a clatter. Scott bounds out.

Stiles, of course, is much slower. He watches as Scott punches in the alarm code. He frowns. “Did Derek say anything to you about changing the code?”

“How should I know?” bites Stiles. “I thought we just established he doesn’t tell me anything.”  
Scott shoots his best friend a pleading look. “C’mon, you know that’s not true.” He pounds his fist on the door. “Derek, it’s us, we know you’re back.”

There’s another crash, even louder than the first. Then Derek is rolling the door open a few inches to demand, “What do you want?” He’s shirtless and glistening - no other way to describe it, really - broad chest streaked with dust.

Stiles just stares for a moment. He’s a couple feet behind Scott, leaning heavily on his crutches, so it’s not _that_ weird. “Uh,” says Scott, scratching the back of his head, “just wanted to check on you, that’s all.”

“Consider me checked,” Derek growls, and he starts to close the door.

Without thinking, Stiles thrusts his crutch forward. There’s a bang as the door recoils, and Stiles finds himself glancing from his crutch tip, to the unamused, hulking werewolf, back down again. “You can’t just take off for six days and expect us not to ask,” he says boldly.

Maybe Stiles hasn’t overestimated his standing with Derek after all. Because there’s no snarl, no flash of blue. It’s not an invitation, but Derek calls over his shoulder, “Stiles, watch your step.”

It seems like an odd thing to say until Stiles identifies the source of all the thumps and bangs: Derek appears to be single-handedly remodeling his kitchen. The rusty old stove’s been ripped out, and Stiles thinks he sees a hint of stainless steel peeking out of one of four appliance-sized boxes in the living room. Derek’s duffle bag is still half-packed, dirty clothes strewn across the couch.

“Move whatever,” Derek grunts.

Scott clears a place for Stiles, but not himself. Choosing, it seems, to ignore that he and Stiles just walked into an active construction zone, he says, “Stiles told me you were with Braeden.”

Derek picks up a measuring tape and walks over to the table. “I thought she could help me find Malia’s mom.”

“Malia’s mom?” Scott repeats, face quizzical, for this part Stiles had left out. His weight settles on the arm of the couch. “She’s alive?”

“Birth mom,” Stiles mutters, running his thumb over his lip as he watches Derek measure, mark and drill three holes in the back of the cabinet. None of this sits right with him. Derek leaves in the middle of the night with a mercenary-for-hire, drops off the grid for a weekend, then doesn’t tell anyone he’s back in town so he can what, remodel his kitchen? “Dude, do you even cook?”

“Sometimes.”

Scott’s brow is knitted with concern. “So you left with Braeden. Where’d you go? Did the two of you find Malia’s mom?”

“Texas.” There’s a pause. “No.”

_You try,_ Scott mouths as Derek carries the cabinet into the kitchen.

“Derek, you told me I was right about Ellen Taylor being a hunter,” says Stiles, craning his neck to keep an eye on the werewolf. “What convinced you? What did Braeden show you?”

Stiles realizes what’s about to happen a half-second before the cabinet comes crashing down, which makes literally zero sense because Derek’s built like freaking Popeye. The werewolf’s arms quiver. With a roar, Derek seizes one of the broken boards and flings it into the wall, where it splinters into a million pieces.

Stiles grabs a fistful of the alpha’s t-shirt. “No, Scotty,” he murmurs. “Just - give him a second, OK?”

Finally Derek returns to the living room, a trickle of blood on his chest from an already-closed wound. He grips the edge of the table like he needs it for support, and Stiles is inclined to think Derek might just. “Dead werewolves.” A beat. “That’s what Braeden showed me. A whole pack of dead werewolves.”

_Shit._ Now Stiles knows why Derek had sounded so out of it when they talked Sunday. He’d just seen a murdered werewolf family. _And you put him up to it ..._

“What,” Scott says slowly, choosing his words with more care than he usually does, “does this have to do with Malia’s mom?”

“She’s a hunter,” Stiles and Derek say in unison. Their eyes meet.

“You go,” Stiles urges.

Derek nods curtly. “This werewolf family, they’d been on the run for days. Taylor’s men chased them from their home in Mexico, caught up with them just over the border.” He swallows hard. “They were all dead. Three kids, six adults. The youngest was a preteen girl. The oldest was in his 70s.”

Scott asks tentatively, “What, uh, did you do?”

The other werewolf doesn’t make eye contact. “They all had wolfsbane poisoning. They were all bleeding black blood.”

The look Stiles shoots Scott is _just let him talk,_ but the alpha must interpret it as _say something_ because out comes the same tone he uses to soothe animals. “Derek,” says Scott, “it’s OK, we get it, you did what - ”

“No, it’s not,” Derek snaps. “I just told you hunters slaughtered an entire pack. That’s not OK, Scott. That’s not supposed to happen. My mom always told us we had nothing to fear as long as we didn’t hurt anyone. ‘They have a code, Derek.’” He snorts derisively. “Not anymore.”

“You’re sure it was Malia’s mom, though?”

When Derek doesn’t answer, Stiles stops biting his thumbnail long enough to tell Scott, “There was a letter from Malia’s birth mom. She asked me if I could do some digging.” Suddenly Stiles feels guilty for waiting so long to bring Scott in on this. “She just wants answers. Can you blame her?”

Scott scratches his chin. “All right, well, we should - I’ll call Argent,” he declares. “He’ll know what to do.”

_“No,”_ says Derek emphatically. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. You can’t trust Argent. I know he’s helped us in the past, I even get why you’d want to. But he’s still one of them.” Derek jabs his finger at the alpha. “There are plenty of hunters who say they follow a code but still think the only good werewolf is a dead werewolf.”

Scott sets his jaw, but at least he doesn’t try to argue with Derek. “Then what do we do?”

When no one says anything, Stiles decides he might as well state the obvious. “Someone has to tell Malia.”

“I’ll do it,” Scott volunteers. “I’m the alpha.”

Stiles starts to protest - after all, he’d been the one she asked, and it’s Derek who actually went looking - but Derek’s nodding like this is a very good suggestion. “If we’re lucky, Ellen Taylor thinks Malia died in a car crash nine years ago, but - ” _we never get lucky, so_ “ - it’d still be smart to look at our defenses.”

“What do you mean?” Scott asks. His tone tells Stiles he’s eager to have a plan but not quite ready to make one himself.

“I had the alarm company come out this morning, upgrade the system. I’ll get an alert if anyone tries to tamper with it.” Stiles notices Derek doesn’t offer up the new code, though. “Stiles, what kind of firepower does your dad have around the house these days?”

It takes Stiles to realize Derek’s asking _because his dad’s no longer sheriff._ “Uh, he has a rifle, a couple of old Berettas from his MP days.”

Derek turns to Scott. “I think you should talk to Deaton about beefing up the security at Stiles’.”

“What, like mountain ash?” Stiles wants to know. “But how will that protect from hunters? Aren’t they usually  human?”

“I don’t think we can expect any of the usual rules to apply here,” Derek says after a minute. “There’s something different about Ellen Taylor. I’ve known unnecessarily cruel hunters, but she’s downright reckless. We should assume if she comes to Beacon Hills she won’t stop until she has Malia.”

Derek knows more than he’s letting on. That’s why when Scott says he should probably go tell Malia, Stiles says, “Actually, Scott, I’m going to stay. If - ” he says this very quickly “ - that’s OK with you, Derek.”

“That,” says Derek in a tone that has Stiles preparing to be shot down, “would be fine. I can take him home. Your mom might need her car.”

_Huh._

“She does.” Scott looks like he has things he badly wants to say but holds his tongue. “Thanks.”

He leaves. That puts Stiles alone with Derek, to whom he probably owes an apology. “Listen, man, I shouldn’t - ”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t take you to PT today,” Derek interjects. “I was waiting for the appliances to be delivered.”

Stiles’ eyes dart from the still-in-the-box refrigerator taking up too much space in the living room to the torn-up kitchen. He waves his hand around. “So, uh, what prompted all this?”

Derek shrugs. “I figured it was time.”

“And you’re going to - ” the werewolf owns a table saw, apparently “ - do the work yourself?”

“Did the bathroom, didn’t I?”

Stiles had been shocked to find the dingy room radically transformed the first time he badgered Derek into bringing him here after PT instead of taking him home. But he hadn’t said anything at the time, mostly because he lost so many weeks and months to the bus crash he had no idea if he was complimenting a recent remodel. “This is what you did in New York, isn’t it?”

Derek nods.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t come back,” Stiles blurts.

Several seconds pass. Derek admits, “I almost didn’t.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Laura,” says Derek thoughtfully after yet another pause. His Adam’s apple bobs. “She’d come back here from time to time. There was just something about the last time, leaving in the middle of the night, promising to be home in a few days - ” he shakes his head “ - I couldn’t do that to you guys.”

He presumably means the pack, but there’s something about his gaze that makes Stiles feel like Derek’s talking to only him. “Uh, this probably isn’t a good time to tell you,” he says slowly, “but I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be in Beacon Hills. My dad seems to think we need a fresh start. He got - ” _pretty tanked,_ but Stiles decides at the last moment not to tell Derek this, “ - to talking about moving to Ohio. His sister lives out there. Though I’m not sure he’s thought this through. Last time we went out there my aunt’s house was pretty full. She’s got like seven kids.”

Derek picks up a drill, passes it from one hand to the other, then sets it back down. “I’m sorry he lost.”

“Me too,” says Stiles. He shouldn’t ask, but he does. “But you already knew, right? About Ohio?”

“Yeah.”

Bitter that he was the last to know this, too, Stiles asks, “Did you tell him it was a stupid idea?”

“Tried to.”

“Thanks. I guess.”

Then Derek says something that surprises Stiles. “I thought you wanted to leave.”

“What? Why would you - ”

“You’ve been looking at colleges a thousand miles from here.”

“That’s different,” Stiles insists. When Derek arches an eyebrow, Stiles sighs, digging his fist into the couch. It takes him a couple tries, but he manages to lift himself up without his crutches. “I’m trying to keep my options open, OK? But if Dad drags me to Ohio - ” he tentatively puts weight on his prosthesis “ - then that’s not my choice. Sometimes you just want to feel like you’re in control, you know?”

He doesn’t invoke the bus crash because he trusts Derek will understand. “No crutches,” Derek says casually.

“Yeah,” agrees Stiles. Another small step. “Bridget’s been threatening to take them away.”

“How’d it go with your dad and Scott?”

Stiles makes a face. “Terrible,” he says, lurching forward another couple of inches. “He doesn’t know how to give me space. My dad, I mean. We yelled at each other the whole way home. Scott was OK. He took me on Monday, tried really hard to be patient with me even though I could tell he was frustrated.”

Though Derek keeps his distance, Stiles knows the werewolf is tracking his every move. “He was a little like that tonight, too.”

Stiles is so focused on putting one foot in front of the other he almost forgets to nod. “He’s trying.”

“It rattled him, didn’t it? What happened with Kira.”

“You could say that.” Stiles holds his hand up. Gets a high five for making it to the table. “I can go,” he offers, “since it seems like you’re in the middle of all this.”

Derek’s staring at Stiles. “Zero, four, one, seven,” he says after a minute.

“What?”

“The new alarm code,” Derek says again, “is Laura’s birthday, April 17. Zero, four, one, seven. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t spread that too widely.”

“Oh,” says Stiles, surprised. “I won’t.”

“Have you eaten?” Derek continues, reaching for the electric sander, almost like he needs to be in motion, which Stiles gets. He misses being able to pace, work some of that restless energy off. “I was going to order a pizza.”

“Yeah, I could do pizza,” Stiles says.

The next thing he knows, Derek’s handing Stiles his wallet. “Order whatever you want.”

Stiles flips open the worn leather, stamped with initials that aren’t Derek’s. _JS._ His dad, maybe, or an uncle. Stiles wants to ask, but he just slides out the werewolf’s credit card. A red, white and blue sticker flutters to the floor. _I voted!_

Stiles doesn’t dare try to bend down and pick it up. “Guess you made it back for the election after all,” he quips.

“Told you I would,” says Derek, and he goes back to work.

*           *           *

**_Tues, Nov 13, 2012_ ** _5:47 PM_

LYDIA: So did you survive the first week with the new boss?

JORDAN: I’m at work Lydia

JORDAN: I told you I can’t keep texting you at work

LYDIA: I see Sheriff Brown has you back on second shift.

LYDIA: Or is it third?

JORDAN: Do you need something Lydia

LYDIA: Not urgently.

JORDAN: OK then if it can waiting I’m going to take my dinner break soon

LYDIA: How soon?

_7:26 PM_

LYDIA: I thought you said you had a break coming up.

LYDIA: You shouldn’t skip meals. It’s unhealthy.

_8:31 PM_

LYDIA: You’re probably on a call.

LYDIA: I’ll leave you alone.

_9:07 PM_

LYDIA: I thought I might be able to talk to you.

LYDIA: Since no one else seems to care it’s the first anniversary of Allison’s death.

LYDIA: I thought Scott might want to decorate her grave. Or Stiles might ask how I was doing. I waited all day for them to acknowledge that she’s not here anymore.

LYDIA: But they never did.

_9:52 PM_

JORDAN: I am SO sorry Lydia

JORDAN: We got called to the express Mary and I left my phone in the car

JORDAN: Not realizing we had a barricade suspect

JORDAN: I’m here now I’d you want to talk

_10:22 PM_

JORDAN: Lydia?

JORDAN: Oct 21

JORDAN: That’s the day our humvee hit the roadside bomb

JORDAN: I took it and dec 29 off last year so people wouldn’t ask what was wrong

JORDAN: When I felt like the whole world should know those were the days my friends died

_10:58 PM_

LYDIA: Express Mary?

JORDAN: I meant express mart

JORDAN: Dammit

LYDIA: I know. It was all over the news.

LYDIA: What did you do?

LYDIA: With your days off. Because I don’t know what to do. Like what would have happened if Scott had wanted to go to the cemetery? I don’t know that I could have.

LYDIA: What am I supposed to do, Jordan?

JORDAN: Whatever helps you Lydia

JORDAN: I called Jake my friend who lost his leg in the blast

JORDAN: We got on skype and drank beer and watched the godfather

JORDAN: Parts 1 and 2

JORDAN: Then we argued about whether or not we should watch iii because Cole would have wanted to even tho Tyler swore it was the worse movie ever made

LYDIA: Did you?

LYDIA: End up watching it.

JORDAN: Nah Jake had to go he wanted to call Cole’s wife before it got much later

JORDAN: That was Oct 21 on Dec 29 I just wanted to be alone didn’t want to talk to anyone not even Jake

JORDAN: But I called Seths mom anyway because I figured however loney I was it had to be way worse for her

JORDAN: He was an only child his dad died when he was 9 so it had been just the two of them for a long time

JORDAN:  the other guys used to tease him because when they’d skype their girlfriends he’d call his mom. We ended up talking for almost an hour and it was good, really good

JORDAN: She told me all these embarrassing stories about Seth as a kid

JORDAN: But as soon we said our goodbyes all I wanted to do was call Seth and tell him what a dipshit he’d been  i felt so lo

JORDAN: Lonely I ended up calling home

JORDAN: Now I call once a week like Seth used to his mom and it’s been good getting back in touch

LYDIA: What about this year?

LYDIA: Did you and Jake do the same thing?

JORDAN: It was a Sunday this year so he actually went up to Chattanooga to spend the day with Marissa and Evan

LYDIA: Who?

JORDAN: Cole’s wife and son Evan is 4 now looks SO much like his dad. I’m having a beer thinking maybe jake’ll call and this year we’ll watch 3 when I get a picture of the two of them Evan on Jake’s shoulders and they look like they’re on some bridge?

JORDAN: It was just good to see Evans a normal happy kid and Jake walking. I’ll have to show you a picture sometime his leg’s ridiculous. Its camo with a bald eagle and its just really Jake

JORDAN: But I got that picture and I ended up pouring out the rest of my beer and meeting up with a few of the guys to play basketball

LYDIA: So it gets easier, then.

JORDAN: I wouldn’t say easier it’s still not easy I wonder if I’ll ever stop wanting to tell Seth something that happened to me because he was my best friend and I don’t have a best friend now

LYDIA: Neither do I.

JORDAN: And I’m really sorry you don’t Lydia I can’t tell you how to grieve Allison there’s no right way

JORDAN: I picked something that reminded me of my friends

JORDAN: Maybe you do something that makes you remember Allison maybe you don’t you don’t have to you know

JORDAN: Maybe you visit her grave on her birthday instead it’s really up to you Lydia

LYDIA: January 31.

LYDIA: Allison’s birthday was January 31.

LYDIA: Your shift has to be almost over.

**_Wed, Nov 14, 2012_ ** _12:13 AM_

JORDAN: Sorry sorry

JORDAN: Yeah headed home now

LYDIA: I know it’s late, but can I come over?

LYDIA: Jordan?

JORDAN: Yeah, that’d be fine.

*           *           *

_“What are you doing?”_ Parrish explodes, clutching a fistful of hair and almost upsetting the plate of Thanksgiving leftovers balanced on his knees. He gestures frantically at the TV as the coach for Detroit argues with the ref. “His knee was down! It would have been overturned on review!”

Sure enough, the touchdown stands. The crowd boos. Parrish’s fork scrapes the plate. He looks down. He’s already eaten all of his mashed potatoes. “That’s on you, Schwartz,” he tells the TV.

“Since when are you a Lions fan?”

Parrish immediately reaches for the remote to bump the volume down a few notches. “Sorry,” he tells Lydia, clearing his throat. “I’m not being a very good host, am I?”

She’s sitting on the opposite end of his couch, shoes off, feet tucked beneath her, a book open on her lap. “No.”

He lifts his plate a couple of inches. “This is good,” he says. “Thanks for bringing it over.” Parrish still isn’t sure what to make of the fact she was waiting for him when his shift ended, plastic sack of leftovers dangling from her fingers.

“I’ll be sure to let the chef at the country club know,” Lydia quips.

“You ate at the country club?” Parrish asks, though now he remembers her saying her stepmom doesn’t cook. The banshee nods. “How was - ”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Lydia interrupts. “It’s not my favorite holiday.” She turns a page in her book.

Parrish shovels a last bite of turkey and dressing in his mouth - truth be told, the bird had been a little dry - and sets his plate on the coffee table. “What’re you reading?”

Instead of answering, Lydia holds up her book. _“‘Les Miserables,’”_ Parrish pronounces, badly. “I read that my senior year, too. Well - ” he tugs at his collar with one finger “ - I was supposed to.”

“It’s not for school,” Lydia informs him curtly.

She’s been coming over enough lately that Parrish knows not to read over her shoulder, but he suspects the book is in the original French. He grabs the remote to scroll through a commercial. Detroit’s up 24-21 over Houston even with the dubious touchdown. He blows out a mouthful of air, absently rubbing his shoulder.

“How often does it bother you?”

Parrish freezes. “What?”

Lydia closes her book, scooting down the couch until she’s way too close. “Isn’t that your bad shoulder? Where you were shot?”

He drops his arm between them, almost like a buffer. “Uh, yeah.”

_“How often,”_ Lydia repeats, “does it bother you?”

Parrish shrugs. “I don’t really keep track. I had a long day, that’s all.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He’d spent the afternoon responding to Thanksgiving-related disturbances, including a man who tried to choke his girlfriend for burning the turkey. There’d been handprints around her neck, yet she’d sworn up and down the neighbors had overreacted. What Parrish wants to do is watch football uninterrupted until he forgets the haunted look in her eyes or falls asleep on the couch. “Not really?”

“Hmm,” says Lydia, reaching for her book. She’s still occupying the seat directly next to him. He kicks a foot up on the coffee table, restless. He wants a beer, but he’s not about to drink in front of Lydia.

Though, had he been drinking, he would have kicked his beer over when the Lions score at the top of the fourth. “All right!” says Parrish, clapping, almost forgetting Lydia is there until their shoulders bump. “I just want to see them win one on Thanksgiving for a change,” he explains when she arches an eyebrow. His hand creeps back to his shoulder as the touchdown replays.

That’s when Lydia’s hand brushes his. “Want me to rub your shoulder?” she says silkily.

Parrish coughs. “N-no,” he stammers, “that won’t be - ”

“C’mon, Jordan,” Lydia purrs, one hand curling toward his neck, the other stretching across his shoulder blade.

He wriggles away. “No, Lydia,” he says, firmly this time, though he can still feel the ghost of her touch. “I just want to watch the Lions - ”

“ - lose,” Lydia finishes. “Houston ties it up and scores in overtime.” Her eyes are stone cold.

Parrish groans as he switches off the DVR. “Lydia,” he complains, “all I wanted to do is come home, watch some football - ”

“Is that really how you want to spend Thanksgiving?” Lydia challenges. _“All alone?”_

She has him boxed in. It takes every ounce of willpower in his tired bones to push her hand off his knee and stand up. “It’s late,” Parrish says. “You should probably get going before your dad starts to worry.”

_“Please,”_ Lydia retorts haughtily, though she rises, jamming her tiny feet back into impossibly tall high heels, “like he’s even noticed I left.”

It’s not until she’s slammed the door behind her that Parrish remembers what she’d said: _it’s not my favorite holiday._ But it’s too late now to ask why.

*           *           *

“OK, Lydia,” the banshee mutters, feeling ridiculous as she spreads her hands over the frozen dirt, “let’s just ... see if you can do this.”

She closes her eyes, and she waits.

Nothing happens.

Lydia opens one eye and scans the quiet, dark cemetery. The last thing she needs is to get caught by the caretaker, whom she’s been steadfastly avoiding. Her eyes flicker to the inscription:

_Keaweaheulu_  
_“Danny” Mahealani_  
_March 1, 1995_  
_\- April 12, 2012_  
_Beloved son_  
_A hui hou_  


This time, when Lydia closes her eyes, she can feel Highway 32 rumbling beneath her. She hears Stiles, reviewing vocabulary for the SAT in a passive-aggressive voice. Someone cracks his gum, loudly. It’s probably Spencer Morris. He used to drive Lydia nuts in calculus with his loud chewing. She hears Danny, too, twisted around in his seat, laughing at something one of his teammates says.

He never even saw the semi, Lydia realizes, a second before white-hot pain lights her chest on fire.

She’s on her hands and knees over Danny’s grave, sucking in great gulps of air. _At least it was quick,_ Lydia thinks. It’s a cold comfort when her friend is six feet underground.

Lydia rubs her hands together to warm up. The November air is crisp. She should have brought gloves. Then again, she hadn’t planned to end up in the cemetery when she left for Parrish’s.

Tara Graeme’s grave is the easiest of the Darach victims to find. The 34-year-old sheriff’s deputy never married and didn’t have kids, but the local police union paid for a nice bench where Lydia sits, fingers tracing the little plaque with the fallen officer’s dates of service. She realizes at once Deputy Graeme was cremated. She wonders if she’ll be able to read the ashes.

She doesn’t have to wonder long. The high school is miles away, yet when Lydia closes her eyes, she can see the deputy opening the front door, marching unsuspectedly to her death. Lydia follows Graeme down the deserted hallway. She knows the deputy died in the showers, so she’s surprised when Graeme heads in the opposite direction, toward the orchestra room. She’s certainly not expecting to see Danny with his trumpet, and the banshee’s eyes startle open as the deputy tells the students to leave the school.

Lydia decides she doesn’t need to see Deputy Graeme’s grisly end. Besides, her thin leggings do little to protect her thighs from the cold stone, and she’s eager to get the blood flowing in her legs again. She’s pretty sure Heather Krupowski’s grave is nearby. She remembers seeing it once while trailing around the cemetery after the caretaker. It stood out because the dates of birth and death had been the same.

But somewhere the banshee takes a wrong turn and ends up in the only section of the cemetery she actively avoids.

“No,” Lydia says firmly. She doesn’t need a connection to the supernatural to know how the little girl buried here died, on another Thanksgiving Day many years ago.

After all, she’d been there.

_MARTIN_  
_Annmarie Grace_  
_Feb 13, 1996_  
_Nov 22, 2001_  
_Step softly, a dream_  
_lies buried here._

The sound of ice cracking reverberates through the quiet cemetery. Someone drags Lydia off her sister’s grave.

“Will you stop screaming, girl?” the caretaker chides, offering her a gnarled hand. “You’ll wake the dead.”

He laughs at his own joke.

Lydia glares at him as she brushes dirt off her leggings. “I had it under control,” she insists, heart hammering.

“Martin,” says the caretaker, tongue flicking like a salamander. “Isn’t that your name?”

Lydia doesn’t answer. She’s too busy staring at the wilting bouquet of sweetheart roses beneath the inscription. Neither of her parents ever talks about Annmarie. There are no pictures of Lydia’s younger sister on display at either house. Yet presumably one of them has been to visit Annmarie recently.

“She drowned,” Lydia says flatly. “In the creek behind our house eleven years ago.”

Back in his office, the caretaker makes Lydia a cup of tea, draping a moth-eaten blanket across her shoulders. “Thanks,” she says, clutching the mug without drinking from it.

“I didn’t know you lost a sister,” the caretaker says, hobbling to his seat on the other side of the desk.

Steam rises from the hot liquid. _Peppermint._ “No one does.”

Strictly speaking, that’s not true. Lydia wouldn’t be surprised if Stiles’ dad remembers the massive search effort, law enforcement officers pretending for her parents’ sake it would be a rescue, not a recovery. Melissa McCall probably remembers, too, when Lydia’s mom had taken a fistful of pills. She’d told the ER doctors she’d simply forgotten how many she took. Lydia snorts.

“Something funny?” When she doesn’t reply, the caretaker continues, “I was starting to think you’d forgotten me.”

“No.” There’s a pause. “I’ve just been busy.”

The caretaker lifts an eyebrow. “I’m not a young man, you know.”

Lydia shrugs. “College applications are due. I can’t exactly put ‘banshee studies’ down as an extracurricular.”

His thin lips fall open into a horrible yellow smile. “You’d be surprised how much people would pay for your gifts.”

“To know when they’re going to die?” The caretaker nods. The very idea of peddling death makes Lydia shudder. “No, thank you.”

“Your tea’s getting cold,” he urges. “Of course, there’s a lot for you to learn before anyone would find you useful.”

Finally, Lydia takes a sip of tea, minty sweet. “So teach me.”

*           *           *

_“Canceled?”_ screeches Denise when John calls to tell her he might not make it to Cleveland that night after all. “They can do that? But you already paid for your ticket!”

John has to hold his phone a few inches out from his ear. He appreciates his sister’s indignation, just wishes she could do it at a lower volume. “Afraid so,” he tells her. “But there’s another flight to Chicago in an hour, and I’m at the top of the standby list. The gate agent thinks I could still make my - ” he frowns when his phone begins to vibrate “ - Denise, hold on, can I call you right back?”

Worried Stiles might need something urgently, John hangs up on Denise before she can reply. “Son.”

“Don’t you think it’s a sign?” says Stiles. “Like, you shouldn’t be going to Cleveland? Especially not on the full moon?”

John pinches the bridge of his nose because he and Stiles have had this fight every day for a week. “Stiles, is this an emergency?”

“No, but - ”

“Stiles, is there reason to believe something bad will happen between now and Sunday?”

“Uh, the full moon?” says Stiles, like he’s sharing some great secret of the universe, not reminding John of something that happens every 28 days.

John sighs. “Stiles, when I dropped you off at Scott’s, he said he and Derek were going to patrol the preserve, make sure nothing was out of the ordinary. Now, did they find something?”

“No, but - ”

“Then I’m going to Ohio.”

“Technically,” Stiles points out, “you’re hanging out at the airport hoping someone will put you on a flight that will get you to Chicago in time to make your connection.”

“Stiles.”

“I still think it’s a sign,” Stiles says glumly.

John’ll admit he’s a little uneasy, too. But he’s going to chalk it up to the guilt he feels saddling Melissa with Stiles for five days so he can jet off to Cleveland. It has nothing to do with the lunar calendar. “You’re OK? Not fighting with Scott, are you?”

“What? _No.”_

“Just checking.”

He thinks Stiles must be biting his thumbnail. “I just think you should be here, that’s all. What if something were to happen?”

“Then it wouldn’t be my problem,” John reminds his son. “Brown hasn’t approved my application for concealed carry yet.”

“That’s stupid,” Stiles mutters.

John agrees. “I need to call your aunt, kiddo,” he says affectionately. “Love you.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Stiles says flatly, and he hangs up.

There’s a buzz over the airport intercom. “Paging passenger John Stilinski. John Stilinski, would you please report to the ticket counter?”

*           *           *

Arroyo taps him on the shoulder, and Parrish about jumps out of his skin. “Jesus, Jo, you scared the crap out of me.”

Her eyes sweep his backside. “Doesn’t look like it,” she quips, jerking her chin up. “Though what has you so wound up?”

“Nothing,” Parrish says defensively. _The full moon, that’s what._

“Well, good,” says Arroyo. “Wouldn’t want to patrol tonight with someone who’s easily spooked.”

Parrish bristles. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demands.

Arroyo quirks an eyebrow. “Full moon?” She wiggles her fingers. _“Ooooh.”_

Parrish grimaces. “You can’t be serious,” he says, pulling on his jacket.

Fortunately, she shrugs. “I’m not,” she says. “Does make you notice the crazies more. Did you hear about the guys O’Grady and Haines brought in this afternoon?”

Parrish shakes his head.

“Weirdest thing,” Arroyo says. “They pull this car over for speeding, right? Out-of-state plates, O’Grady notices a gun in the backseat, reminds the guy there’s no reciprocity in California. Passenger flips out. Starts screaming at them, says he’ll have their job, threatens to shoot them. They get him in cuffs, only to have the driver join in. Found an arsenal of illegal weapons in the trunk.”

“Damn,” says Parrish. “Glad no one got hurt.”

“Anyway, they’re back in holding,” Arroyo continues. “Best part is, you know Haines would’ve convinced O’Grady to let them go if the one guy hadn’t run his mouth off. Hey, can I drive?”

Parrish hands her the keys. It’ll give him a chance to text Scott about the funny feeling he’s had all day.

*           *           *

Scott almost trips over a tree branch trying to read a message from Deputy Parrish. “Hey,” he calls, “Parrish wants to know if we’ve found anything.”

He almost collides with Derek, who crosses his arms. “We won’t if you don’t stop making noise,” he grumbles.

Scott stares at his beta. “Some moons I swear you _want_ to find something out here.”

_“What I want,”_ says Derek through gritted teeth, “is not to call attention to the fact that we’re out here, just in case.”

“Yeah, I’m going to tell Parrish we’re calling it a night.” Scott watches Derek disappear deeper into the woods. “I mean,” he calls, “if you’re ready to call it a night. Are you?”

No answer. Sighing, Scott fires off a quick reply to Parrish before jogging to catch up.

**SCOTT: Preserve is quiet**

An hour later, even Derek has to concede nothing’s amiss. “C’mon,” he tells Scott, hands buried in his jacket pockets, “I’ll give you a ride back to your bike.”

Scott is about to ask where Derek’s parked when he realizes they’re on the edge of the Hale property. “OK,” he agrees.

But when they reach the clearing where the burned-out house should be, it isn’t there. “Dude,” Scott says without thinking, “what happened to your house?”

Derek flinches. “I told you,” he says, “the county took it over.”

“And what, tore it down?” It’s a stupid question. Scott can see the outline of the foundation under the fallen leaves.

Derek’s SUV beeps as it unlocks. “Your bike’s at Deaton’s?”

Scott, who doesn’t trust himself not to say anything else stupid, nods. He stares out the window until the empty clearing where Derek’s family lived - and died - disappears behind a line of trees.

“Thanks for the ride,” he tells the other werewolf, hopping out of the SUV at Deaton’s. “Hey, uh, you could come over, if you wanted. Stiles is - ”

“Staying with you for a few days, I know,” Derek interjects. “I’m going to go for a run.”

Scott swallows. “Well, that also sounds nice,” he says. “Have a good - ”

He’s interrupted by an explosion so loud it shakes the ground. A fireball rises in the distance.

“Isn’t that - the sheriff’s station?” Scott says tentatively. With a start, he realizes it’s only 8:30. His dad very well could still be at the office.

“Get in,” Derek commands.

By the time they get back to town, it’s utter pandemonium. The streets around the station are blocked in all directions, and finally Derek just parks at a gas station. They walk toward one of the hastily-erected barricades, where a deputy Scott doesn’t recognize stops them.

_“No, nuh uh, nope,”_ says Haines, according to his name badge. “You’re not getting _any_ closer.”

Scott bites his lip. “Please, my dad’s Agent McCall.”

The deputy folds his arms across his chest. “Listen, kid, I don’t care who you say your - ”

“Scott! Scott!”

Rafe’s a little dusty, a little dirty. He has a small cut on his cheek but otherwise appears fine. He holds Scott at arm’s length. “What are you doing here? I thought - ”

“Working late at Deaton’s,” Scott says quickly. “Saw the flames. What happened? Can we help?”

Of course, Rafe is squinting at Derek. “Who’s he?” he asks. “Why do I recognize him?”

“A friend, Dad,” says Scott hastily. “You probably saw him at the station. He takes Stiles to PT sometimes.”

Rafe still looks suspicious, but he gestures for Scott - and Derek - to follow him. Haines glares sulkily as they pass. Talking out of the corner of his mouth, Rafe tells Scott, “I shouldn’t be letting you back here.”

Derek’s smart to take on a _sir_ when he asks, “Were there any injuries?”

“A couple,” says Rafe, and he sighs. Hands on his hips, he admits, “But our biggest problem is we have three prisoners unaccounted for. Two guys booked today on illegal weapons charges - and Caldwell.”

They’re only about 50 yards from the station, where Scott’s spent enough time over the years to know the thick plume of grey-black smoke is coming from evidence lockup. He’s momentarily distracted by a high-pitched whine. It’s one of the K9 officers, being treated for smoke inhalation.

“Do you want me to call Dr. Deaton?” Scott offers. “I know he’d be happy to come - ”

Rafe waves a hand. “They’ll be fine,” he says dismissively, even as the two German shepherds lie on the pavement, their visibly-shaken handler crouched between them. Scott has to force himself to let it go. He choke-coughs, not on pungent smoke, but what smells like raw sewage.

“McCall!”

Scott and Rafe both look up. A firefighter jogs toward them. Rafe steers him away from Scott and Derek, not knowing, of course, that they’re werewolves with supernatural eavesdropping abilities.

“We found this back in lockup,” the firefighter tells Rafe, holding out what looks like a detonated grenade. “Go on, you can take it. I wouldn’t be holding it if bomb squad hadn’t cleared it.”

“Son of a bitch,” Rafe swears, “that came in today on those two guys, the ones that were armed to the - ”

Scott doesn’t catch the rest because his phone’s ringing. Stiles’ face flashes on screen. He tries to silence the call, but his phone just starts ringing again. He gets a stern look from Rafe.

But really, it’s the perfect opportunity to sneak off. Derek’s already motioning for Scott to follow him around the building, where the worst of the carnage is. There’s a row of ambulances parked along the south side of the building, a half dozen deputies lined up for breathing treatments and bandages. Scott’s relieved to see Parrish isn’t among them.

His phone begins buzzing.

Derek glares at Scott. “Will you silence that?” he hisses.

“Sorry, sorry,” says Scott, declining a third call from Stiles. “It’s just Stiles, you know how he is. He probably saw it on the - ”

“Where did you say he was?” Derek rounds on Scott. “Your house, right?” The alpha nods. “Is your mom with him?”

Scott shakes his head. “No,” he says as they turn the corner. “She’s at work. But Malia’s there. He’ll be fine.”

They both smell it at the same time: rotting meat.

_Not another berserker,_ Scott thinks.

Derek grabs his arm. “Scott,” he says, “Ellen Taylor’s used berserkers to go after werewolves in the past.”

“What? Why didn’t you - ” Scott pales. “Oh God, it’s after Malia, isn’t it?”

“Wherever she is,” says Derek, tone deadly, “is the most dangerous place Stiles could be.”

Scott doesn’t have to be told twice. He doesn’t care who’s watching. He drops to all fours and tears after Derek.

*           *           *

“I told you so,” says Stiles, “I told you so, I told you so, I told you- ” there’s a beep, and he jerks the phone away from his ear just long enough to see he’s got an incoming call from Scott “ - so. Call me as soon as you land.” He punches a button. “Hello?”

“Where are you?” Scott demands.

“I am literally on the couch where you left me,” says Stiles, patting the cushions for the remote so he can turn the volume back up now that he’s done leaving irate voicemails for his father. “It’s nice, the new couch.”

“Seriously? You didn’t seal the mountain ash barrier? Are you not watching the - ”

“Oh, well, I got up to do that,” says Stiles, throwing up a hand to keep the crutch he just knocked over from hitting him in the face. Before it can clatter to the ground, Malia’s righting it. _“Thanks,”_ Stiles mouths. “What do you think this is, my first full moon?” Before Scott can answer, he asks, “Hey, is your dad OK?”

He’s not sure why it takes Scott a moment to answer - if the question catches him off guard, or if there’s something else going on wherever he is. “Uh, yeah. He’s fine. Just a little banged up.”

“What about Parrish? And Jones? Did you happen to see Deputy - ”

“Stiles,” Scott interrupts, “I don’t know all of them like you do.” As an afterthought, he adds, “But I don’t think Parrish was there, no.”

Stiles absently bites his thumbnail, forces himself to put aside thoughts of injured deputies. He tries telling himself there’s been so much turnover in the last two years he barely knows any of them anymore. Of course, he hasn’t forgotten what it’s like to be a kid scared his dad wouldn’t make it home from a shift. “OK, where are you? Are you still with Derek?”

There’s a pause during which Stiles watches Malia sniff the air and unfurl from where she’s seated cross-legged on the rug. His eyes follow her to the window. Finally, Scott says, “We’re actually headed your way.”

Stiles quickly objects to this. “What? No! Malia and I are fine,” he insists. “Go, do wolf things. Help people.”

He’s not expecting Derek to pluck the phone out of Scott’s hand. “Stiles,” he says, “Ellen Taylor might be responsible for the explosion at the sheriff’s station.”

_“No.”_

There’s a grimness to Derek’s voice that Stiles hasn’t missed. “We think she’s made a berserker,” he continues.

Stiles is about to launch into a long rant about how people really need to stop messing around with berserkers when the stench of decay hits his very human nostrils. _Shit,_ he thinks, _shit, shit, shit._ “Derek, can berserkers get through mountain ash?”

*           *           *

_Yes._

The scene in front of them unfolds like a nightmare. Derek and Scott pull up to the McCall house right as the berserker crashes through the window. There’s a reverberation that sounds nothing like shattering glass, and Derek knows it’s the mountain ash barrier giving way.

_He’ll tear Malia in two,_ Derek thinks. _Then he’ll shred Stiles because killing’s all berserkers know._

Still, Derek grabs Scott by the shirtsleeve before the alpha can go charging in. “Stay away from its claws,” he warns. “Bezoars only confer temporary immunity.” _And rarely work twice,_ he adds silently.

Inside the McCall house, the berserker has Stiles and Malia cornered. Derek can’t say he’s surprised to see the werecoyote fully shifted, positioned between the berserker and Stiles, growling protectively. Derek just hopes they can get her back after.

If there is an after.

This berserker is much taller than the last, but if Derek had to guess, much younger, too. He’s swinging wildly at Malia’s coyote form, not fighting tightly the way Esteban Calavera had when he donned the bear suit.

Scott, of course, dives in headlong, leaving Derek no choice but to flank him.

“How do we change him back?” Scott wants to know, narrowly dodging one of the berserker’s claws.

Derek, too, rolls away just in time. “We don’t,” he hollers, watching as a snarling Malia launches herself at the berserker, manages to sink her sharp teeth into the fleshy part of his arm. Though the bear-beast lets out an inhuman howl of pain, he doesn’t have any trouble throwing the coyote into the wall. Malia whines but picks herself up just the same.

Scott manages to elbow the berserker hard enough in the ribcage to break bones. “How do we change _her_ back?” he shouts as Malia lunges a second time.

_We don’t._ “She’s stronger like this,” Derek assures Scott, though a fully-shifted werecoyote still isn’t a match for the berserker. This time, when he tosses her, she’s not so quick to her feet. Out of the corner of his eye, Derek sees Stiles twitch. “No!” he roars.

Too late. Stiles lurches into the fray, face scrunched, eyes closed, hands closed in tight fists, like he’s about to punch the berserker. What he does instead is throw out his arms.

It echoes across the McCalls’ living room.

To Derek, it’s the same way he feels walking into Deaton’s, a creeping sensation at the base of his spine. But instead of the sharp coolness of mountain ash, he feels warmth and family. _Pack._

Stiles says something, too, but even Derek’s werewolf ears can’t catch what it is. It’s not in any language he knows, and Derek knows a lot of languages. Come to think, it might not be speech, even, but something more primal. Whatever Stiles shouts, it must communicate to the berserker he’s not welcome here.

Because just like that, he disappears into the night.

Stiles staggers forward, one step, two steps, no crutches, before he collapses, panting, into the werewolf’s arms.

“Did you see that?” he whispers to Derek.

It takes Derek a second to remember he’s supposed to hug Stiles back. “I did,” he confirms. But something tells Derek that the alpha, now crouched over Malia’s still werecoyote form, somehow didn’t, or at the very least doesn’t understand the significance of what just happened.

“Guys,” says Scott, voice cracking, “she’s not breathing.”

In a surprisingly confident voice, Stiles says, “Deaton’ll be able to fix her. But you should stop trying to get her to shift back, Scott. She’s got a better chance of healing this way.” He glances up - he’s still clinging to Derek - for confirmation. The werewolf nods. It’s true.

Scott doesn’t wait for Derek to offer help. The alpha just scoops the werecoyote up and carries her out to the car. Derek’s about to ask Stiles if he wants his crutches. But then it occurs to him the teen hasn’t realized he’s walking without them.

*           *           *

Parrish’s scanner squawks with yet another BOLO for the two suspects arrested earlier in the day on weapons charges. They’re still unaccounted for, as is Kyle Caldwell. He watches Arroyo light a flare. “You’re sure about this?” he asks.

The bright flame casts Arroyo’s face in shadows. “Yeah,” she says after a moment. “Pretty sure.”

The call had come in mere minutes after the sheriff’s station exploded, Brown barking for them to get out to the preserve and make sure the suspects couldn’t leave town. But Arroyo’s instinct - a good one, Parrish thought - had been to set up on the opposite end of Highway 191. “Just wanted to make sure.”

“I’m sure,” Arroyo snaps. She glares at Parrish. “You already said you agreed with me, so stop it. They’ll come this way. They’ll have to, if everyone else is where they’re supposed to be.” She sets another flare.

Parrish holds up his hands. “I’m not disagreeing with you, Jo.”

“Oh.” She clears her throat. “OK.”

They get back in the squad car to wait. If Arroyo’s right, if this is the only route out of town, then they’ll eventually come face-to-face with the hunters. _Hunters._ Because who else would come to Beacon Hills on the full moon with an armory in the trunk?

“Still think he’s innocent?”

Parrish casts a sidelong glance at Arroyo. “Come again?”

“The kid, Caldwell,” she says. “He’s on the loose. Still think he’s innocent?”

He stares at the moon. “I don’t know what to think anymore,” Parrish admits.

The silence stretches between them. The stillness must make Arroyo uncomfortable. “Where’re you from again?”

Parrish runs a thumb over his lip. “Iowa.”

“Where in Iowa?” Arroyo prompts after a minute.

“Central Iowa,” he says. “Gilbert, Roland, Stanhope. Small towns. We, uh, moved a lot. Went to high school in Ames, though.”

“That’s what, Iowa State?”

“Go Cyclones.”

“Why leave?”

Parrish shrugs. “Joined the Army.”

“You did a couple tours, right?” He nods in the affirmative. “Your arm was in a sling the first few weeks at the Academy. You get injured over there?”

Parrish nods again, then slaps his shoulder for good measure. “Got shot.” He’s not entirely sure why he’s telling her this.

It’s Arroyo’s turn to glance sideways at him. He’s waiting for her to ask if he killed anyone - that’s usually what people want to know when they find out he served - but instead she blurts, “Did it hurt?” Even in the darkened squad car, Parrish can tell she’s gone red. “I mean, you see a lot of gunshot wounds as an EMT. Always looked like they hurt.”

Parrish can’t help it. He chuckles. “Yeah,” he confirms. “It hurt like hell.”

“So why sign up for a job where it could happen again?” Arroyo wants to know.

It’s a good question. Parrish isn’t sure he has a good answer. He forces a smile. “Let’s just try to get through tonight without getting shot at.”

“Deal.”

The silence doesn’t seem as oppressive this time. Still, Parrish finds himself asking, “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Well, I know you used to drive an ambulance,” says Parrish, “but that’s it. I’m out. Did you grow up around here?”

He thinks this is a pretty benign question, but Arroyo must not. “I was born in the U.S., if that’s what you’re asking,” she snaps.

“That’s not - Jo, we’ve worked together for what, a year now? I figured it was OK to ask if you grew up in Beacon Hills.”

Parrish has all but given up on getting a response out of Arroyo when she says, “Mostly Butte County. But we also moved around a lot.”

“Why stay?”

“Where else would I go?” She’s staring at the moon, too, he notices.

“There’s a whole world out there,” Parrish points out.

“Yeah? Sounds like all you’ve seen of it is desert,” Arroyo quips.

“Don’t forget farmland,” he counters.

There’s another stretch of silence, broken not by more conversation but a tell-tale bang. The back windshield shatters. Arroyo snatches her patrol rifle from the console. “Was that - ”

“Get down!” Parrish hollers, a second before another bullet ricochets off the dash. He draws his gun, peers out through the slot between the seat and the headrest. He thinks their assailants must be the two men apprehended earlier. They’re carrying military-grade assault rifles and plenty of ammo. “Two of them, behind us!”

The passenger-side window explodes. _Make that three._

“Two more approaching on my side,” Arroyo says grimly.

_OK, four._ Parrish hears at least three more shots. “They’re going to keep firing into the cab,” he hisses. “Think you can get around to my side? On three. One, two - ”

He ducks, reaches for the door handle and tumbles out of the cruiser. _Cover._ He yanks open the rear door and peers around it. “Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Office!” he yells. “Lower your weapons!”

But the hunters continue to fire.

“Drop it!” Arroyo screams. “I said, drop it!”

A second later, she’s joined him behind the patrol car. Parrish gulps as the hunters shoot out another window. “Remember that deal we made?” he whispers to Arroyo.

There’s a pause. “Very funny, Parrish.”

That’s his cue to pop up and fire three well-timed rounds. There’s a howl of pain, but Parrish doesn’t stick around to see which hunter he’s hit. He’d rather not have to explain to Sue how he managed to get himself shot a second time.

“All units, we are under attack,” Arroyo is saying into her radio. “Shots fired on Highway 191.” She turns to Parrish. “We’re outgunned.”

He’d just been thinking even if he could somehow get to the AR-15 in back, they’ll never be able to match the hunters’ firepower. “We have cover,” he points out, “They don’t.” Parrish swallows. “We’ll just have to - pick them off.”

Arroyo stares at him. “That’s it? That’s your plan?”

“Got a better one?” Parrish retorts, and trying not to dwell too much on how bad of an idea it is, he darts out to empty his clip before diving back to the relative cover of the squad car. Arroyo’s eyes are wide as he changes the magazine in his Sig Sauer. “What?”

“Your radio,” she says shakily.

He glances at his left shoulder. There’s a wire dangling where his radio used to be. “Yeah,” says Parrish, “don’t do that.” He nudges Arroyo. “Your turn.”

“My turn?”

“You were the best shot at the Academy, Jo,” he reminds her.

Turns out she’s good under pressure, too, because two more of the hunters cry out. _“Fuck,”_ says Arroyo, sliding back down the side of the cruiser. “I’ve never shot anyone before.”

_Yeah, well, it never gets any easier._ “One more?”

Arroyo shakes her head, holds up two fingers. “The first one I hit got right back up. I swear these guys are superhuman.” She throws down the Remington. “Out of ammo,” she says, drawing her sidearm. “Where _is_ backup?”

Parrish doesn’t think these guys are superhuman, just used to much sturdier opponents. It occurs to him they’ve already shot their way through two barricades if they’ve made it this far out of town. He licks his lips. “I’m sure they’re on the way,” he lies. He takes a deep breath and splutters. The air smells foul.

“No one’s coming, are they?” Arroyo says flatly.

The last window explodes with a bang. But the still-shooting hunters may be the least of their worries. Parrish watches Arroyo’s nose wrinkle. That’s bad. That means she smells it, too, the pungent smell of death, like an open, festering wound.

The hunters stop firing, and that’s when the berserker charges.

With a roar, the beast flips the patrol car like it’s some kind of Matchbox model, leaving Parrish and Arroyo open, exposed, to be picked off like sitting ducks.

That is, if the berserker doesn’t rip them apart first. He shoots Arroyo a pitying look. _It must be terrible to know you’re about to die and not even have a word for the thing about to kill you._

But the two deputies have one advantage: neither of them is bleeding. The berserker sniffs and follows its nose to one of the hunters wounded earlier. There’s a shriek of agony, the terrible rip of flesh -

The bear-man triumphantly holds up the hunter’s arm. The shooting starts back. Parrish has been shot at enough times to know he’s better off staying low, but he gets it, the instinct to run. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Arroyo about to make a break for the trees behind them. _“Jo, no - ”_

Too late.

By Parrish’s estimation, the bullet catches her in the thigh. She goes down with a scream of pain. The flares give off just enough light he can see blood pooling on her pant leg. There’s probably no point calling it in - she’ll bleed out in a matter of minutes if the bullet nicked her femoral artery - but it’s instinct to reach for his radio.

Which has been blown to bits.

But the hunters have turned to fire on the berserker, and granted this brief reprieve, Parrish has to at least try. If he somehow survives this - a big if at this point - he won’t be able to live with himself if he doesn’t make an effort to summon help for Arroyo. He crawls to the wounded deputy. “Officer down,” he says, gripping her radio tightly. “I repeat, officer down. Deputy Arroyo’s been shot.”

There’s a crackle, a request for their location, which Parrish knows damn well Arroyo has already given. But he doesn’t get a chance to reply because his partner seizes the front of his jacket.

“What are you doing?” she demands, shoving him off. “Don’t worry about me, worry about the berserker!”

*           *           *

There’s a lot of chatter on the scanner tonight, but it’s Parrish’s shaky call for assistance that has John pushing the Jeep to its limit. He’d been wondering where Brown had the deputy stationed, since Parrish has been noticeably absent on comms even as reports of mayhem trickled in from around town. In fact, John was starting to worry Parrish had been injured in the blast when he’d issued his plea for help. Arroyo’d called in shots fired on Highway 191. But where?

_Think, John._

It hits him: they’re out by the lake. They have to be. It’s where he would have sent the deputies if he wanted to make sure no one could leave town. _Is Brown that smart, though?_

Parrish is. And Arroyo. They’d been Nos. 1 and 2 in their class at the Academy. John feels a tug of guilt. He’d hired them both. Granted, that had been before he knew what went bump in the night. He wonders if he’d have made different choices then, knowing what he does now.

The old scanner Stiles had installed in the Jeep under his old man’s nose continues to squawk. “I need fire and EMS out by the lake,” the dispatcher says. “Is there an available unit?”

_I’m available. I’m on my way._ John floors it, eyeing the assault rifle Argent had given him. It’s in the passenger seat. He’s not sure what made him grab it. He hopes he won’t have to use it.

But it’s Beacon Hills, so he might.

John slams on the brakes when he sees the great, hulking figure in the middle of the road, lit only by a couple of flares. He’s used to his cruiser, momentarily loses control of the Jeep. John wrestles with the heavy steering wheel, a little amazed Stiles ever mastered driving this thing. _This must be a berserker,_ he thinks, and he can hear his son quipping about the bear-man not so many months ago.

John reaches for the Colt. It’s lighter than the M16 he’d carried in Kuwait, quieter. More accurate.

It doesn’t deter the berserker.

So John fires again.

And again.

And again.

_The grenade launcher._

John fumbles, realizes he needs to grip the magazine, fires. It sounds like a cannon going off.

The round catches the berserker in the ribs. He howls, wounded, and then comes apart, bones clattering to the ground. The body beneath the bear suit drops, too.

John spies movement along the tree line. He can see two men running through the shadows. One is clutching his arm. John considers giving chase. But he can’t worry about them.

“Sheriff,” Parrish yells, “I need help.”

He doesn’t bother to correct the deputy. “What do we got here?” he says briskly, tossing Argent’s gun back in the Jeep. The roadway’s strewn with glass and debris, even a few body parts. John’s stomach turns at the sight of the severed arm.

“GSW to the upper thigh,” says Parrish. He’s already tied a tourniquet. “It must not - ” he shakes his head “ - I thought she’d have bled out by now.”

“You did good, Parrish,” says John. He thinks he can hear sirens in the distance. “Now help me get what’s left of the berserker into the Jeep.”

Parrish, kneeling next to Arroyo, doesn’t move.

“Parrish, did you hear me? I can’t be here when EMS arrives.” _Neither can that thing._ “Deputy Parrish!” Still nothing. Now John’s sure he hears sirens. “Parrish!” he barks. “Are you going to help me or not, soldier?”

That does it. Parrish springs to his feet. “Where do you want him, sir?”

“Help me get him off the road,” says John, reaching for the berserker’s shoulder. He’s startled to see Kyle Caldwell’s empty eyes staring back at him. “Jesus.”

Parrish hooks the dead teenager under the armpits. John grabs Kyle’s legs. Together, they stuff his body into the back of the Jeep. “Where will you take him?”

John’s headed straight for Deaton’s, but the less Parrish knows, the more plausible deniability he’ll have. “I can’t tell you that,” he says gruffly.

“I thought you’d gone to Ohio.”

“Flight got canceled,” John says thoughtfully. This is true, though he leaves out the part where he got on another plane and decided at the last minute to give his seat to the next passenger on the standby list. “Guess it was for the best. I was just pulling into the garage when news broke that the station was on fire. Knew there was a scanner in the Jeep, figured I’d just listen.” _But old habits die hard._

The sirens are right on top of them. “You should go,” Parrish urges. “Make sure the kids are OK.”

John swallows. He’s tried calling Stiles a dozen times, but he doesn’t tell Parrish his son’s not picking up. “Will do. Take care of Arroyo. Make sure someone’s at the hospital for her family.”

He peels out, just in time to see flashing lights in his rearview mirror. He’s headed out of the county when he needs to go into it, but there’s no turning around. John will just have to go around the lake to get to Deaton’s, that’s all. _Fifteen minutes,_ he tells himself, though the stench of blood and bone in the enclosed space already has him nauseated. _No problem._

The Jeep never makes it.

A mile from the clinic, a single shot rings out. John, wounded, drives off the road.

*           *           *

They all watch with bated breath as Deaton pries open the coyote’s jaws and shoves a bezoar in its mouth.

_Malia,_ Stiles has to remind himself, _not it, she. Malia._ On the table, the werecoyote thrashes. He automatically steps back.

Right into Derek, whose hand closes around Stiles’ shoulder before he can apologize. “Careful,” the werewolf cautions, letting go.

“Scott,” Deaton prompts, “it’s time to bring Malia back.”

The alpha bites his lip. “OK,” he says, nodding in agreement, “but how do I do that?”

Stiles is a little surprised when Derek, who usually makes Scott figure this stuff out for himself, suggests, “Try rubbing her muzzle.”

Of course, this doesn’t sit well with the still-healing werecoyote, who bites and snarls at Scott’s extended hand.

“Let her know you’re here as her alpha,” Derek calls.

Scott takes a deep breath, then flashes his eyes.

That’s all it takes. Malia’s limbs stretch, fur disappearing, until she’s sprawled naked on the exam table. Stiles immediately averts his eyes, which is funny, because the others don’t, and he’s pretty sure he’s the only one who’s seen her naked before.

Well, since they first found her in the woods, at any rate.

Scott does shrug out of his hoodie. “Here,” he says, draping it over Malia’s shoulders.

For her part, the werecoyote appears unconcerned by her sudden nudity. “Is it gone?” she wants to know. “The berserker, did you kill it?”

“No,” says Scott, shaking his head, “but I don’t think it’ll come here.”

Suddenly, Stiles’ mouth is very dry. He’s been wondering when Scott would ask, how long it would take before the alpha demanded answers. Stiles was hoping for a little more time to figure it out for himself, honestly. He wonders if he can get away with telling Scott he simply doesn’t know, can’t they just be glad it went away?

But before Scott can ask, Derek swoops in and ushers Stiles out to the waiting room. “We’ll give you two a minute,” the werewolf says.

Stiles almost stumbles. “What was that about?” he asks, scowling, reaching for the small of his back, where Derek’s hand had just been.

“Sit,” Derek commands, but Stiles isn’t in the mood to sit. He wants to pace, wants to work off all his nervous energy. He’s equal parts exhilarated and exhausted: _he_ did that, _he_ drove off the berserker …

Stiles stops pacing. “Are you going to tell Scott?” he demands.

Derek crosses his arms. “Are you going to sit down?” he counters.

Stiles glares at the werewolf for several seconds, but he does take a seat. “Happy now?”

“Very,” Derek replies, dropping into the chair next to Stiles and pressing a palm to the teenager’s jiggling knee. “You can relax, you know. Scott was checking on Malia. He didn’t see what you did.”

_“Which was?”_ Stiles’ voice comes out an octave higher than usual.

“Used your spark to repel the berserker,” says Derek, like this is a perfectly normal thing for Stiles to have done.

Stiles’ eyes bug. “Keep it down!” he hisses. “I don’t want Scott - _wait.”_ He wills his mouth to keep pace with his brain. Suspicious, he asks, “How’d _you_ know about my spark?”

“First,” says Derek, tapping his thumb with the opposite forefinger, “Deaton sealed the room when we left. We can’t hear Scott, and he can’t hear us.”

“Why? Why would he do that?”

_“Because - ”_ Derek puts pressure on Stiles’ knee again “ - the full shift can be incredibly draining, even for an alpha.”

“But Malia’s not an alpha,” Stiles points out.

A year ago, his questions and interruptions would have already triggered a threat from Derek. But Derek’s downright patient as he says, “I know, Stiles. I meant Malia’s going to be weak. She needs an alpha. She needs Scott. We don’t need to be a part of that conversation.”

“Oh.”

“And _second,”_ Derek continues, ticking this too off on his fingers, “I’ve known you were a spark since that night outside the rave.”

Stiles stares at Derek for a moment, mouth agape. “And you didn’t _tell_ me?” he says accusingly. “Why the hell not?”

Derek just watches Stiles pace. “I thought you knew?”

“Oh? You thought I knew. _You thought I knew._ Well, Derek, let me tell you - ”

Stiles doesn’t get a chance to tell the werewolf it’s downright _rude_ to withhold vital information - like whether someone has a spark - because Derek rises to his feet. “What’s that?”

“What’s - ”

“Someone’s outside,” says Derek, flicking his claws.

“Could it be the berserker?” Stiles wants to know. “Because, uh, I know I made it go away, but I’m not exactly sure how I - ”

_“Quiet.”_

There’s a thud right outside the building.

“It doesn’t smell like death,” says Stiles before he can stop himself, “so it’s probably not - ”

Derek hauls open the door. John staggers in, bloody and battered, and collapses on the floor.

*           *           *

“You won’t,” Argent rasps, only able to lift his chin a couple of inches, “be able to break those.”

Isaac stops what he’s doing just long enough to glare at the hunter. “I’m a werewolf,” he reminds Argent, “or have you forgotten?”

“They’ll have been - ” his eyes flutter “ - tempered with mountain ash.”

With a grunt, Isaac tries to break the chains anyway. He’s forced back with a bang. “I’m not leaving you,” he says stubbornly, picking himself up off the cellar floor.

Blood drips from Argent’s temple. “Yes, you are.”

He doesn’t pass out ... he just momentarily can’t answer Isaac, that’s all.

The next thing he hears is the young werewolf frantically repeating his name. “Chris! Chris!”

Argent can feel Isaac checking for a pulse. It’s involuntary. He rolls his head toward the comfort of the werewolf’s touch, lets Isaac stroke his cheek. “Go,” he croaks, “save yourself.”

“No,” Isaac insists, “not without you.”

“Isaac, you have to listen to me,” he says, mustering what little strength he has left. “It’s too late. Only one of us is walking out of here tonight.”

But Isaac isn’t listening. He tugs uselessly on the hunter’s shackles, repelled again by the mountain ash. His eyes are yellow, desperate. “I’m not ready.”

“This is it, Isaac,” Argent continues, “the moment you’ve trained for.”

He thinks he hears footsteps upstairs. When Isaac’s head snaps up, Argent’s certain. “I can’t do that to you,” the werewolf says. “Not after - ”

“You can, and you will,” says Argent. “Listen to me, Isaac. Fight your way out. If it’s not too late, help the Mercados. Then you go to Scott. Do you understand?”

Isaac’s shaking his head. “No,” he whispers, over and over, “no, no, no - ”

“Isaac,” Argent says, unable to tell if the light’s flickering or he’s losing consciousness, “do you understand?”

Finally, the werewolf nods. “I’ll come back for you,” he promises.

“You’ll do no such thing,” Argent admonishes. He’s been in a lot of tough spots, but he sees no way out of this one. “Go!”

_“Nous protégeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger eux-mêmes,”_ Isaac whispers, and he bolts.

Upstairs, Argent hears their captors fire at Isaac. He closes his eyes, hoping the young werewolf can fight his way out. There’s the tell-tale rending of flesh, a shriek of pain, then Isaac howls.

It’s not the cry of a wounded animal, but the call of a free man.

Isaac is safe.

Argent can die now.

He slumps against his chains. He’s not sure how long he hangs like that, how much time passes before the cellar door opens again. He takes one look at the woman who enters and thinks if he’s died, then this is hell. He watches her dark eyes squint at Isaac’s shackles. She’s on top of him in a flash.

“Do you really think,” she spits, prodding Argent with her knife, “he’d have made it past my men if that’s not what I wanted?”

Argent stares at the thin blade, defiant. “It’s good to see you, Ellen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It takes a village to post a fic. No, seriously. Tonight [lazaefair](http://lazaefair.tumblr.com), [frommybookbook](http://frommybookbook.tumblr.com) and I are all under one roof, and we all took turns removing line breaks from a 98-page Google doc.
> 
> This took way longer than it should. Special thanks to [jacksbittle](http://jacksbittle.tumblr.com/), who answered my call for a Spanish speaker.
> 
> As always, I hope you'll tell me what you think here or on my Tumblr, [em2mb](http://em2mb.tumblr.com/)


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